"Oh, I can see you can't have it on you at the moment," said Mr.
Wilkinson with much intellectual magnanimity.

"Well, the fact is----" began Turnbull again, and then the phrase
was frozen on his mouth, for round the corner came the goatlike
face and gleaming eye-glasses of Dr. Quayle.

"Ah, my dear Mr. Wilkinson," said the doctor, as if delighted at
a coincidence; "and Mr. Turnbull, too. Why, I want to speak to
Mr. Turnbull."

Mr. Turnbull made some movement rather of surrender than assent,
and the doctor caught it up exquisitely, showing even more of his
two front teeth. "I am sure Mr. Wilkinson will excuse us a
moment." And with flying frock-coat he led Turnbull rapidly round
the corner of a path.

"My dear sir," he said, in a quite affectionate manner, "I do not
mind telling you--you are such a very hopeful case--you
understand so well the scientific point of view; and I don't like
to see you bothered by the really hopeless cases. They are
monotonous and maddening. The man you have just been talking to,
poor fellow, is one of the strongest cases of pure _idee fixe_
that we have. It's very sad, and I'm afraid utterly incurable. He
keeps on telling everybody"--and the doctor lowered his voice
confidentially--"he tells everybody that two people have taken is
yacht. His account of how he lost it is quite incoherent."

Turnbull stamped his foot on the gravel path, and called out:
"Oh, I can't stand this. Really----"