He had sat but a little while in his laboratory (where
he had been occupying his small intervals of leisure lately in
electrical studies and experiments) when, as chance would have it, the
last post brought him a note from Dr Rippon. Its purport was curious.
"_I think_," the letter ran, "_you were sufficiently interested in the
story I told you some week or two ago about one Hernando Courtney, not
to be bored by a note on the same subject. Last night I accompanied my
daughter and son-in-law to the Lyceum Theatre. On coming out we had to
walk down Wellington Street into the Strand to find our carriage, and in
the surging crowd about there I am almost sure I saw the Hernando
Courtney whom I believed to be dead_. Aut Courtney aut Diabolus. _I have
never heard satisfactory evidence of his death, and I should very much
like to know if he is really still alive and in London. It has occurred
to me that, considering the intimacy of yourself and your family with
the gentleman who was made known to me at your mother's house by the
name of Courtney, you may have heard by now the rights of the case.
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