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In the afternoons, he traveled the streets of Whitechapel, the East End, and other impoverished London neighborhoods, calling upon the sick and injured.
    Five years of such toil, however, took a toll. Occasionally Tim worked long into the night, forgot to take his own medication, and began to feel ill himself. He realized that unless he cut back on the hours he spent treating the poor, he would no longer be of any help to them. While he had been spending his time serving the poor, other physicians continued to press him to join them in their practice. The several cures Tim had pioneered for his patients, and the scientific articles he had published on topics such as the link between good health and proper nutrition, had enhanced his professional reputation. Finally, with his inheritance exhausted, Tim agreed to enter into partnership with two prominent Harley Street doctors. He would spend his mornings treating patients there, and the afternoons in his Camden Town office.
    For a while, the arrangement worked well; Tim found that the income from his Harley Street patients enabled him to buy more medicines and supplies to treat those who could not afford to pay for their care. But he found himself spending more and more time on Harley Street. A growing number of wealthy patients clamored for his services, and it was not easy to refuse an appointment to an earl or a baroness. Two years after joining the Harley Street practice, Tim found his time fully occupied with his new patients. He shut his office in Camden Town, and seldom ventured among the poor any longer.
    At some point Tim fell asleep, his thoughts blurring into dreams. One image chased another through his brain: riding to church on his father’s shoulder, mixing chemicals in the university’s laboratory, delivering a baby by the light of a single candle in a London alley late one chilly autumn night. These nocturnal tasks seemed to consume his energy, so that when he awoke at his customary hour of five o’clock, he felt exhausted.
    â€œIf I had any sense, I’d send a telegram to Dr. Eustace asking him to see my patients today,” Tim said to himself as he shaved. To do so, however, would only anger his partner, and besides, Ginny Whitson and Jonathan were coming to his office at noon. He looked longingly at his bed, then was struck by the thought that Ginny and Jonathan had no bed. Tim finished shaving and hurried to dress.

Chapter 5
    T im went straight to his office without eating breakfast. He felt guilty for spending so much time at the party rather than researching Jonathan Whitson’s case. He hoped that he would have time between appointments to consult his medical journals before Ginny and her son arrived.
    He dealt with the usual assortment of minor maladies, bidding farewell to his last patient at quarter to twelve. Richard Beckham had followed his advice and taken the day off, so Tim brought several recent journals and an anatomical chart to the clerk’s desk to examine while he waited. Soon he found two articles of some relevance, and looked back and forth between them and the chart, trying to make an exact diagnosis of the child’s problem. He was so engrossed in the work that he did not realize how late it was until the clock chimed one. There was no sign of Ginny or Jonathan. Tim opened the front door, checking to make sure the last patient had not accidentally locked it, then strolled slowly down the walk to the street. Ginny and Jonathan were nowhere in sight. He had asked Henry to pick him up at half past one, so he pivoted on his heel, intending to wait another thirty minutes. At that moment he heard his partner locking his office door.
    â€œAh, Cratchit, glad to see you’re still here,” Dr. John Eustace called from the doorway of Tim’s waiting room. Eustace was Tim’s partner, a man in his fifties who was even more sought-after by London’s titled and wealthy inhabitants than Tim. Eustace showed