by a narrow landing separating it from the sidewalk, and the front door led directly into a living room which occupied the entire width of the building. Mr. Pappalukas greeted us without enthusiasm. He was a small man, slim and attractive, with hair almost completely gray and a small white mustache. His face showed lines of worry and his shoulders sagged, not with defeat but with an angle that betokened resigned acquiescence.
"Good evening, Dr. Trowbridge, Dr. de Grandin," he acknowledged McCormick's introduction, then, in answer to our guide's inquiry, "No, there doesn't seem to be much change. I think the end is very near, now, Marshall. I've seen such cases before—"
"And so have I, Monsieur," de Grandin interrupted. "May we see this one, if you please?"
Our host gave him a rather weary look, as if to say, "Of course, if you insist, but it won't do any good," then led us to the bedroom where our patient lay.
She was a pretty little woman with a wealth of softly curling black hair, soft brown eyes almost disproportionately large, a rather small but very full-lipped mouth and a sweet, yielding chin cleft by a deep dimple. Except for her bright lipstick the only color in her face was centered round her eyes where violet shadow's gathered in the hollows. "Thank you, Marshall;" she responded to young McCormick's inquiry, "I don't feel much better; I'm so tired, dear, so cruelly tired."
Our physical examination told us nothing, or, to be more exact, served only to confirm McCormick’s report. Her temperature and pulse were normal and her skin was neither dry nor moist, but exactly as a healthy person’s skin should be. Fremitis was no more than usual; upon percussion we could find no evidence of impaired resonance, and our stethoscopes disclosed no trace of mucous rales. Whatever her illness might be, I was prepared to stake my reputation it was not tuberculosis.
De Grandin showed no disappointment. He was cheerful, and with something more than the conventional "bedside manner," as he dropped into a chair and took her hand in his, his finger resting lightly on her pulse. "They tell me that you dream, ma chére," he announced. "Of what is it that you dream all unhappily?"
A thin wash of blood showed in her face, to be succeeded by a pallor even more pronounced than before. "I—I'd rather not discuss my dreams, sir," she answered, and it seemed to me a look of fear came in her eyes. "I—"
"No matter, my small one," he broke in with a quick, reassuring smile. "Some things are better left unsaid, even in the sick room or confessional."
He drew a notebook from his pocket and poised a silver pencil over it. "And when was it you first began to feel these spells of weakness, if you please?"
"I—" she began, then faltered, drew a long breath and fell silent.
"Yes?” he prompted. "You were saying—"
"I—I can't remember, sir."
His narrow black brows rose in Saracenic arches at her answer, but he made no comment. Instead, across his shoulder he asked me, "Will you be good enough to move the light, Friend Trowbridge? I find it difficult to see my notes."
Obediently I moved the bedside lamp until he nodded satisfaction with its place, and as I stepped back I noticed that the light fell directly on the silver pencil with which he appeared to be scribbling furiously, but with which he was actually making aimless circles.
"Morbleu, but he is bright, is he not, Mademoiselle?" he asked the girl as he held up the pencil. Does he not shine like sunlight on clear water?"
SHE looked at the small shiny rod and as she did so he twirled it more quickly, then gradually decreased its speed until it revolved slowly, then swung back and forth like a pendulum. "Observe him closely, if you please," he ordered in a soft monotone. "Behold how he sways like a young tree in the wind, a tired, a very tired young tree that seeks to rest all quietly. It is a sleepy little tree, a very tired and sleepy little tree, almost as tired and sleepy as you, ma petite." His voice sank low and lower, and his words took on a slurred and almost
