room. What was it now? Why was the doctor bending over him so anxiously, so soberly now? If it were over Wenger there might be reason—his practised eye had told him that it was already the twilight of life for the man whose form lay within arm's reach of him upon the next bed.
"You are a brave man," said Doctor Kreelmar finally in low, grave tones, as though forcing himself to speak; "and big enough to want to know the truth. An hour ago I thought there was every chance in the world for you, and now"—he hesitated.
"And now?" Varge prompted steadily, his eyes fixed speculatively on the physician's face.
Doctor Kreelmar shook his head.
"You have taken a serious turn for the worse—I do not want to buoy you up with false hopes."
"You mean," said Varge quietly, "that I am going to die?"
"I mean," said the little doctor gently, nodding his head slowly, "that if there is anything you might want to say, any confession you might want to make, anything in connection with the crime that brought you here, you should speak while your mind is still clear and while you have the strength."
The look of speculation in Varge's eyes vanished—his brain, keen, quick and active, had read the other now.
"There is nothing I can say—there is nothing to say," he answered. "Everything is known—I have confessed to it. What more can I say?"
"Varge," said the doctor, and, reaching out, took Varge's hand, "I want you to believe me when I say that I am your friend. You can trust me. I do not be-
