white sails hanging limp and dead as though they had succumbed to the humid, sultry, sweltering heat. Toward the South, just dimly discernable above the horizon, the smoke of a great German steamer was trailing away and blending into the sluggish, dull-gold mists. To the West, the masts of several tramp schooners stood out among the jumble of yachts and small native craft like the stumps of charred tree-trunks in the jungle.
As soon as possible, after the necessary evil of Custom's officials had been disposed of, Jerold Wharton was speeding down the main street of the town in the direction of the European Club.
As he entered the hall, he was met by the doctor.
"I'm glad you have arrived," said he bruskly, without any formal salutation whatsoever. "Coningsby is dying. He cannot live throughout the night. It is only a question of hours now. But he does not know. He thinks he is recovering. I have never believed in telling a patient that he cannot live."
As the doctor spoke, Jerold Wharton thought of the words which Coningsby had used in the jungle, during their last exploration together.
"Deacons may rant about the gorgeous purity of truth, but as for me, I admire the man who tells a lie when he does it to save a soul from pain."
"Poor old Conny," he muttered wanly. "Poor old Conny."
Then he said, addressing the doctor: "I suppose I may see him."
"Yes," was the quick reply. "If it doesn't do him
