A young man of refined appearance, but evidently suffering greatmental distress, presented himself one morning at the residence of asingular old man, who was known as a surgeon of remarkable skill. Thehouse was a queer and primitive brick affair, entirely out of date,and tolerable only in the decayed part of the city in which it stood.It was large, gloomy, and dark, and had long corridors and dismalrooms; and it was absurdly large for the small family--man and wife--that occupied it. The house described, the man is portrayed--but notthe woman. He could be agreeable on occasion, but, for all that, hewas but animated mystery. His wife was weak, wan, reticent, evidentlymiserable, and possibly living a life of dread or horror--perhapswitness of repulsive things, subject of anxieties, and victim of fearand tyranny; but there is a great deal of guessing in theseassumptions. He was about sixty-five years of age and she about forty.He was lean, tall, and bald, with thin, smooth-shaven face, and verykeen eyes; kept always at home, and was slovenly. The man was strong,the woman weak; he dominated, she suffered.Although he was a surgeon of rare skill, his practice was almostnothing, for it was a rare occurrence that the few who knew of hisgreat ability were brave enough to penetrate the gloom of his house,and when they did so it was with deaf ear turned to sundry ghoulishstories that were whispered concerning him. These were, in great part,but exaggerations of his experiments in vivisection; he was devoted tothe science of surgery.The young man who presented himself on the morning just mentioned wasa handsome fellow, yet of evident weak character and unhealthytemperament--sensitive, and easily exalted or depressed. A singleglance convinced the surgeon that his visitor was seriously affectedin mind, for there was never bolder skull-grin of melancholia, fixedand irremediable.A stranger would not have suspected any occupancy of the house. Thestreet door--old, warped, and blistered by the sun--was locked, andthe small, faded-green window-blinds were closed. The young man rappedat the door. No answer. He rapped again. Still no sign. He examined aslip of paper, glanced at the number of the house, and then, with theimpatience of a child, he furiously kicked the door. There were signsof numerous other such kicks. A response came in the shape of ashuffling footstep in the hail, a turning of the rusty key, and asharp face that peered through a cautious opening in the door."Are you the doctor?" asked the young man."Yes, yes! Come in," briskly replied the master of the house.The young man entered. The old surgeon closed the door and carefullylocked it. "This way," he said, advancing to a rickety flight of stairs. The young manfollowed. The surgeon led the way up the stairs, turned into a narrow,musty-smelling corridor at the left, traversed it, rattling the looseboards under his feet, at the farther end opened a door at the right,and beckoned his visitor to enter. The young man found himself in apleasant room, furnished in antique fashion and with hard simplicity.