We often read in novels how a seemingly respectable person or family has some terrible secret which has been concealed from strangers for years. The English language possesses a vivid saying to describe this kind of situation. The terrible secret is called “a skeleton in the cupboard.” At some dramatic moment, the terrible story becomes known and a reputation is ruined. The reader’s hair stands on end when he reads the final pages of the novel that the heroine, a dear old lady who had been always so kind to everybody, had, in her youth, poisoned every one of her five husbands. It is all very well for such things to occur in fiction. To varying degrees, we all have secrets which we do not want even our closest friends to learn, but few of us have “a skeleton in the cupboard.” The only person I know who has a skeleton in the cupboard is George Carlton, and he is very proud of the fact. George studied medicine in his youth. Instead of becoming a doctor, however, he became a successful writer of detective stories. I once spent an uncomfortable weekend, which I shall never forget, at his house. George showed me to the guest-room which, he said, was rarely used. He told me to unpack my things and then come down to dinner. After I had stacked my shirts and underclothes in two empty drawers, I decided to hang in the cupboard one of my two suits I had brought with me. I opened the cupboard door and then stood in front of it petrified. A skeleton was dangling before my eyes. The sudden movement of the door made it sway slightly and it gave me the impression that it was about to leap out at me. Dropping my suit, I dashed downstairs to tell George. This was worse than “a terrible secret”; this was a real skeleton! However, George was unsympathetic. “Oh, that,” he said with a smile as if he were talking about an old friend. “That’s Sebastian. You forget that I was a medical student once upon a time.”