Of late years he has lived principally in London, and I have seen little or nothing of him.
I have some years to pass over before I can approach to anything like a conclusion of this fragmentary narrative.

And even when that later period is reached, the little that I have to say will not occupy your attention for more than a few minutes.
One rainy autumn evening, while I was still practicing as a country doctor, I was sitting alone, thinking over a case then under my charge, which sorely perplexed me, when I heard a low knock at the door of my room.
"Come in," I cried, looking up curiously to see who wanted me.
After a momentary delay, the lock moved, and a long, white, bony hand stole round the door as it opened, gently pushing it over a fold in the carpet which hindered it from working freely on the hinges.

The hand was followed by a man whose face instantly struck me with a very strange sensation.

There was something familiar to me in the look of him, and yet it was also something that suggested the idea of change.
He quietly introduced himself as "Mr.Lorn," presented to me some excellent professional recommendations, and proposed to fill the place, then vacant, of my assistant.

While he was speaking I noticed it as singular that we did not appear to be meeting each other like strangers, and that, while I was certainly startled at seeing him, he did not appear to be at all startled at seeing me.
It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I thought I had met with him before.