The next day we procured a specialist from Los Angeles to come out and examine Helen. He was an elderly man with white hair and whiskers, together with what I thought were objectionably brusque manners. I was partly reassured by the speed and skill with which he worked—"the old devil is efficient for all his rudeness," I thought. I had a documentary history of the case, prepared by our doctor in London. This I gave him. He stuffed it into his pocket without so much as glancing at it. He spoke sharply once or twice to Miss Brock because that young woman did not move quickly enough to suit him. To Helen he said almost nothing beyond asking a half dozen brief questions. When he had finished—he was about an hour at it, all told—he turned to me and said: "Come to my office tomorrow, Mister—let's see, what is your name? ah, yes, Jevons"—(consulting his note-book). "I'll give you my opinion of your wife's case then. Here's the card of a local doctor—a good man. Use him. I'll come out again, if you wish or your doctor sends for me. Good morning." He was off without waiting for further reply.

"Ted, he's a beast," Helen exclaimed. "Don't let him near me."

I tried to explain that a great scientist and expert perhaps lost, in time, some of his human touch. His reputation we knew to be supreme in his field; it was best to take him as we found him.

"I shan't worry about his manners, sweetheart, while he is curing you," I concluded.

I went in to Los Angeles the next morning to call at the doctor's office. The waiting room was full of all sorts and conditions of men and women, seated on chairs around the four walls. I stood, for there were no more empty chairs. A young lady, the doctor's secretary, took my card and laid it on her desk.

"The doctor is engaged just now," she said. More arrived, but none was shown into the doctor's office. I stood, my heart beating wildly, almost frenzied by the delay. The door opened, and the old physician looked into his waiting room. He beckoned to a lady in a far corner. She arose and went toward him. In my anxiety, I forgot all etiquette.

"Doctor!" I pleaded. "One moment."

"What is it?" he turned, vexed. "Can't you wait your turn?"

"Just a word and then I'll wait all day, if necessary."

"Well?"

"My wife—you examined her yesterday—can you tell me—?" I stumbled over my words.

"Let's see—what name?"

"Mrs. Jevons," I answered.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Jevons—that case." He spoke in a loud tone of voice. All the waiting room was listening.

"There's absolutely no hope, Mr. Jevons. I don't think she will live three months. Good morning."

"No—no—hope! Doctor!" I knew my voice was breaking, and I could feel the eyes of all those sitting there upon me.

"You came too late," he said. "What's the use of coming out here with a case in its last stages? There's no hope."

He went into his room, followed by the woman patient, and banged the door. I stood stunned, dazed, so weak I did not trust myself to take a step; and still the eyes from all around the room stared at me. "You God damned brute!" I muttered under my breath, "God damn your dirty soul!" and staggered toward the doctor's closed door. Then I paused. "After all," I thought, "why should we matter to him?" A great rage against the others sitting there seized me. Had they no decency to stare at me like that? I stiffened. "I won't give them any more show for their money, the loathsome hounds," and I went to the secretary's desk to pay the fee. I was surprised to note that I counted out the bills with a steady hand. She handed me a receipt.

"I am sorry, Mr. Jevons," she said, so the others could not hear.

I looked at her blankly a moment. "Thank you."

In the street I had to lean against the wall of an office building for a time, for there was no strength in my legs. A policeman came from the centre of the street.

"What's the matter, young fellow? Sick?"

"Just a momentary faintness," I answered. "I'm all right, really."

"Well, go in there and get yourself a drink."

I saw him pointing with his club at a nearby café. I got there somehow and sat down at a little table.

"What's yours, bud?" the bartender called with a great assumption of joviality.

"A glass of sherry," I gasped. He brought it and set it before me. I saw him preparing for a pleasant chat.

"I'm very sorry," I said, "but would you mind not talking to me? I—I've got some business to think out."

"Oh, have it your own way," he replied, deeply offended, and returned behind his bar.

There was just one problem in my mind. What was I to say to Helen? Should I tell her the truth? Ought I to tell her? Three months, or less, the doctor had said. Could I make her happy for those three months? Was that not better than telling her? But would she guess? Could I keep it from her? Should I be able to play my part? Back and forth these questions raced in my mind. No answer came, for either choice seemed wrong. Helen and I did not lie to each other. But this was a different kind of lie from any mere vulgar deception. Had she the right to know?

"Say, if you're going to sit there all day, how about a little action?"—this from the bartender.

"Oh, hell," I exclaimed, "bring me anything you like—or have it yourself on me."

"Thanks, I'll take half a dozen cigars," he said, rattling a box. "Damned if you aren't a queer guy. From the East, I guess."

"Yes—but please do me the favour to keep still."

"I'm not trying to butt in on nobody," he muttered, aggrieved again. "And I'm good enough to talk to any stuck-up Eastern guy that comes along."

As I disappointed him by ignoring this last remark, he took refuge in polishing glasses. I was conscious of a distant rumbling inside him from time to time. But I did not dare go back to Helen until I had got control of myself again. Furthermore, I must make up my mind about what I was to tell her. There seemed no way in which I could force my thoughts into an orderly arrangement. Little glimpses of our life together—of all we had done and planned in the last four years—kept interposing themselves between me and the present. "Helen—Helen—my Helen—my wife," was ceaselessly echoing inside my head. Finally a resolve came to me. "I can't tell her," I said to myself—"right or wrong, I can't."

I went to the telegraph office and sent a message to Mr. Claybourne. Then I took the long journey back to our bungalow. Helen was sitting on the verandah when I got there, the baby riding a hobby-horse near her, and Miss Brock reading aloud. Helen's face was thin now, but she had lost none of her delicate beauty. I went up to her and kissed her.

"What did the doctor say, Ted dear? How long you have been."

"He says it is all right, sweetheart. I am bringing good news." I wondered that the lie did not choke me.

"Honour bright, Ted?" she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. It was our one oath of truthfulness that she demanded of me. Never before had I violated it.

"Honour bright, Helen precious."

"Ted, isn't it glorious! I feel better already. Will it be in June?"

I kneeled in front of her chair and hid my face in her lap.

"Why, Ted! I believe you are crying!"

I clung to her hand.

"Dear old boy, Ted. I love you," she leaned over me and whispered.

The local practitioner confirmed the opinion of Dr. Krehstadt, the specialist. He and I, with Miss Brock, held a council-of-war while Helen was taking her afternoon nap next day.

"Why in the name of heaven did the doctors in London and New York talk so optimistically to us?" I asked him, for he was a pleasant-spoken young man with friendly blue eyes. He shrugged.

"Perhaps," he hazarded, "they thought it important to keep your courage up. Or it is possible"—and he hesitated—"I hate to say this of my colleagues—yet it may be they wished to pass you along. I don't say it was the reason in your case, Mr. Jevons, but I have known it to have been done with other tubercular cases sent out here."

"What have you thought, Miss Brock?" I turned to the trained nurse. She was a level-headed, taciturn person, with a quiet way of always doing her work exactly as expected of her. It suddenly occurred to me I had not asked her opinion before.

"I have had a good deal of experience with tuberculosis patients, Mr. Jevons. I confess I have been worried about Mrs. Jevons since I first came into the case."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, Mr. Jevons—I'm not a doctor. It's not my business to offer opinions or to make a diagnosis. Besides, Mr. Jevons—seeing you with Mrs. Jevons every day, who could tell you? I've seen a lot of death and suffering in my hospital work&mdash............