I saw him through the window of the tobacconists, waiting for the clerk to fill his order. The bell tinkled as I walked through the door.

"My dear fellow! You did not tell me you would be home today!"

"No, I did not. And in consequence I have sat alone all afternoon. But you are coming home now? We have much to discuss."

He looked concerned. "Yes, of course. This is the last…"

"Doctor, come quick! There's a man been run over by one of them mails!"

"Where?"

"Just the street over."

"I'm coming. You'll wait for my parcel, won't you? I'll meet you back at Baker Street."

The transaction was completed, and I walked out of the shop. After this morning's threat I should go straight home, but I felt uneasy. I would at least learn how long the doctor would be occupied with this accident.

I listened for the commotion that invariably accompanies any disaster, but heard nothing. My unease increased as I walked down the street, in search of some sign of him. And there it was—in a quiet alley sat the black bag he carried on his rounds. On it fluttered a note. "Now do you stand fast?"

What I fool I was! No mail carriage came this way! How could I have been so blind?