“I’ll see you again,” Harry¹ Del Mar² told Daughtry, at the end of his fourth conversation on the matter of Michael’s sale.  
Wherein Harry Del Mar was mistaken.  He never saw Daughtry again, because Daughtry saw Doctor Emory first.
 
Kwaque’s increasing restlessness at night, due to the swelling³ under his right arm-pit, had began to wake Daughtry up.  After several such experiences, he had investigated and decided⁴ that Kwaque was sufficiently⁵ sick to require a doctor.  For which reason, one morning at eleven, taking Kwaque along, he called at Walter Merritt Emory’s office and waited his turn in the crowded reception-room.
 
“I think he’s got cancer, Doc.,” Daughtry said, while Kwaque was pulling off his shirt and undershirt.  “He never squealed⁶, you know, never peeped.  That’s the way of niggers.  I didn’t find our till he got to wakin’ me up nights with his tossin’ about an’ groanin’ in his sleep.—There!  What’d you call it?  Cancer or tumour⁷—no two ways about it, eh?”
 
But the quick eye of Walter Merritt Emory had not missed, in passing, the twisted fingers of Kwaque’s left hand.  Not only was his eye quick, but it was a “leper eye.”  A volunteer surgeon in the first days out in the Philippines, he had made a particular study of leprosy, and had observed so many lepers that infallibly, except in the incipient⁸ beginnings of the disease, he could pick out a leper at a glance.  From the twisted fingers, which was the anæsthetic form, produced by nerve-disintegration, to the corrugated⁹ lion forehead (again anæsthetic), his eyes flashed to the swelling under the right arm-pit and his brain diagnosed it as the tubercular form.
 
Just as swiftly flashed through his brain two thoughts: the first, the axiom, whenever and wherever you find a leper, look for the other leper; the second, the desired Irish terrier, who was owned by Daughtry, with whom Kwaque had been long associated.  And here all swiftness of eye-flashing ceased on the part of Walter Merritt Emory.  He did not know how much, if anything, the steward¹⁰ knew about leprosy, and he did not care to arouse any suspicions.  Casually¹² drawing his watch to see the time, he turned and addressed Daughtry.
 
“I should say his blood is out of order.  He’s run down.  He’s not used to the recent life he’s been living, nor to the food.  To make certain, I shall examine for cancer and tumour, although there’s little chance of anything like that.”
 
And as he talked, with just a waver for a moment, his gaze lifted above Daughtry’s eyes to the area of forehead just above and between the eyes.  It was sufficient.  His “leper-eye” had seen the “lion” mark of the leper.
 
“You’re run down yourself,” he continued smoothly¹³.  “You’re not up to snuff, I’ll wager¹⁴.  Eh?”
 
“Can’t say that I am,” Daughtry agreed.  “I guess I got to get back to the sea an’ the tropics and warm the rheumatics outa me.”
 
“Where?” queried¹⁵ Doctor Emory, almost absently, so well did he feign¹⁶ it, as if apparently¹⁷ on the verge¹⁸ of returning to a closer examination, of Kwaque’s swelling.
 
Daughtry extended his left hand, with a little wiggle of the little finger advertising¹⁹ the seat of the affliction.  Walter Merritt Emory saw, with seeming careless look out from under careless-drooping eyelids²⁰, the little finger slightly swollen²¹, slightly twisted, with a smooth, almost shiny, silkiness of skin-texture.  Again, in the course of turning to look at Kwaque, his eyes rested an instant on the lion-lines of Daughtry’s brow.
 
“Rheumatism²² is still the great mystery,” Doctor Emory said, returning to Daughtry as if deflected²³ by the thought.  “It’s almost individual, there are so many varieties of it.  Each man has a kind of his own.  Any numbness²⁴?”
 
Daughtry laboriously²⁵ wiggled his little finger.
 
“Yes, sir,” he answered.  “It ain’t as lively as it used to was.”
 
“Ah,” Walter Merritt Emory murmured, with a vastitude of confidence and assurance.  “Please sit down in that chair there.  Maybe I won’t be able to cure you, but I promise you I can direct you to the best place to live for what’s the matter with you.—Miss Judson!”
 
And while the trained-nurse-apparelled young woman seated Dag Daughtry in the enamelled surgeon’s chair and leaned him back under direction, and while Doctor Emory dipped his finger-tips into the strongest antiseptic his office possessed²⁶, behind Doctor Emory’s eyes, in the midst of his brain, burned the image of a desired Irish terrier who did turns in sailor-town cabarets, was rough-coated, and answered to the full name of Killeny Boy.
 
“You’ve got rheumatism in more places than your little finger,” he assured Daughtry.  “There’s a touch right here, I’ll wager, on your forehead.  One moment, please.  Move if I hurt you, Otherwise sit still, because I don’t intend to hurt you.  I merely want to see if my diagnosis²⁷ is correct.—There, that’s it.  Move when you feel anything.  Rheumatism has strange freaks.—Watch this, Miss Judson, and I’ll wager this form of rheumatism is new to you.  See.  He does not resent.  He thinks I have not begun yet . . . ”
 
And as he talked, steadily²⁸, interestingly, he was doing what Dag Daughtry never dreamed he was doing, and what made Kwaque, looking on, almost dream he was seeing because of the unrealness and impossibleness of it.  For, with a large needle, Doctor Emory was probing the dark spot in the midst of the vertical²⁹ lion-lines.  Nor did he merely probe the area.  Thrusting into it from one side, under the skin and parallel to it, he buried the length of the needle from sight through the insensate infiltration³⁰.  This Kwaque beheld³¹ with bulging³² eyes; for his master betrayed no sign that the thing was being done.
 
“Why don’t you begin?” Dag Daughtry questioned impatiently.  “Besides, my rheumatism don’t count.  It’s the nigger-boy’s swelling.”
 
“You need a course of treatment,” Doctor Emory assured him.  “Rheumatism is a tough proposition.  It should never be let grow chronic³³.  I’ll fix up a course of treatment for you.  Now, if you’ll get out of the chair, we’ll look at your black servant.”
 
But first, before Kwaque was leaned back, Doctor Emory threw over the chair a sheet that smelled of having been roasted almost to the scorching³⁴ point.  As he was about to examine Kwaque, he looked with a slight start of recollection at his watch.  When he saw the time he startled more, and turned a reproachful face upon his assistant.
 
“Miss Judson,” he said, coldly emphatic³⁵, “you have failed me.  Here it is, twenty before twelve, and you knew I was to confer with Doctor Hadley over that case at eleven-thirty sharp.  How he must be cursing me!  You know how peevish³⁶ he is.”
 
Miss Judson nodded, with a perfect expression of contrition³⁷ and humility³⁸, as if she knew all about it, although, in reality, she knew only all about her employer and had never heard till that moment of his engagement at eleven-thirty.
 
“Doctor Hadley’s just across the hall,” Doctor Emory explained to Daughtry.  “It won’t take me five minutes.  He and I have a disagreement.  He has diagnosed the case as chronic appendicitis³⁹ and wants to operate.  I have diagnosed it as pyorrhea which has infected the stomach from the mouth, and have suggested emetine treatment of the mouth as a cure for the stomach disorder⁴⁰.  Of course, you don’t understand, but the point is that I’ve persuaded Doctor Hadley to bring in Doctor Granville, who is a dentist and a pyorrhea expert.  And they’re all waiting for me these ten minutes!  I must run.
 
“I’ll return inside five minutes,” he called back as the door to the hall was closing upon him.—“Miss Judson, please tell those people in the reception-room to be patient.”
 
He did enter Doctor Hadley’s office, although no sufferer from pyorrhea or appendicitis awaited him.  Instead, he used the telephone for two calls: one to the president of the board of health; the other to the chief of police.  Fortunately, he caught both at their offices, addressing them familiarly by their first names and talking to them most emphatically and confidentially⁴¹.
 
Back in his own quarters, he was patently elated.
 
“I told him so,” he assured Miss Judson, but embracing Daughtry in the happy confidence.  “Doctor Granville backed me up.  Straight pyorrhea, of course.  That knocks the operation.  And right now they’re jolting⁴² his gums and the pus-sacs with emetine.  Whew!  A fellow likes to be right.  I deserve a smoke.  Do you mind, Mr. Daughtry?”
 
And while the steward shook his head, Doctor Emory lighted a big Havana and continued audibly to luxuriate in his fictitious⁴³ triumph over the other doctor.  As he talked, he forgot to smoke, and, leaning quite casually against the chair, with arrant⁴⁴ carelessness allowed the live coal at the end of his cigar to rest against the tip of one of Kwaque’s twisted fingers.  A privy⁴⁵ wink⁴⁶ to Miss Judson, who was the only one who observed his action, warned her against anything that might happen.
 
“You know, Mr. Daughtry,” Walter Merritt Emory went on enthusiastically, while he held the steward’s eyes with his and while all the time the live end of the cigar continued to rest against Kwaque’s finger, “the older I get the more convinced I am that there are too many ill-advised and hasty operations.”
 
Still fire and flesh pressed together, and a tiny spiral of smoke began to arise from Kwaque’s finger-end that was different in colour from the smoke of a ci............