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Rh the Alhambra. He complained of bad pains in his head.

"My nerves seem all unstrung," he said. "I don't know what's been the matter with me for the past couple of days. I'm entirely out of sorts."

"Ah! I expect you want a change. Too much City. Why don't you go to Brighton, or somewhere, for a few days?"

"Because, just now, d'Escombe, I'm very busy," he declared. "I have to attend to several important and private matters—business that nobody can conduct for me."

"But I don't like your symptoms," I said. "One should never neglect a nervous attack."

"You'll have to prescribe for me, d'Escombe," he said with a laugh, as we leaned over the back of the grand circle of the theatre. "That sore on my lip has completely healed."

"I told you it would, if you persevered with the ointment," was my reply.

"Well, you'll now have to cure my nerves," he declared.

"I'll call to-morrow, if you really wish it," I said. "But, I somehow hate treating personal friends. I wish you'd call in a local man. There's Spencer, in Jermyn Street—a