know? Because black fever isn't of this earth! It's from somewhere else, James--and Surama alone knows where, because he brought it here. He brought it and I spread it! That's the secret, James! That's all I wanted the appointment for--that's all I ever did--just spread the fever that I carried in this gold syringe and in the deadlier finger-ring-pump-syringe you see on my index finger! Science? A blind! I wanted to kill, and kill, and kill! A single pressure of my finger, and the black fever was inoculated. I wanted to see living things writhe and squirm, scream and froth at the mouth. A single pressure of the pump-syringe and I could watch them as they died, and I couldn't live or think unless I had plenty to watch. That's why I jabbed everything in sight with the accursed hollow needle. Animals, criminals, children, servants--and the next would have been----

Clarendon's voice broke, and he crumpled up perceptibly in his chair.

"That--that, James--was--my life. Surama made it so--he taught me, and kept me at it till I couldn't stop. Then--then it got too much even for him. He tried to check me. Fancy--he trying to check anybody in that line! But now I've got my last specimen. This is my last test. Good subject, James--I'm healthy--devilish healthy. Deuced ironic, though--the madness has gone now, so there won't be any fun watching the agony! Can't be--can't----

A violent shiver of fever racked the doctor, and Dalton mourned amidst his horror-stupefaction that he could give no grief. How much of Alfred's story was sheer nonsense, and how much nightmare truth he could not say; but in any case he felt that the man was a victim rather than a criminal, and above all, he was a boyhood comrade and Georgina's brother. Thought of the old days came back kaleidoscopically. "Little Alf"--the yard at Phillips Exeter--the quadrangle at Columbia--the fight with Tom Cortland when he saved Alf from a pommeling....

He helped Clarendon to the lounge and asked gently what he could do. There was nothing. Alfred could only whisper now, but he asked forgiveness for all his offenses, and commended his sister to the care of his friend.

"You--you'll--make her happy," he gasped. "She deserves it. Martyr--to--a myth! Make it up to her, James. Don't--let--her--know--more--than she has to!"

His voice trailed off in a mumble, and he fell into a stupor. Dalton rang the bell, but Margarita had gone to bed, so he called up the stairs for Georgina. She was firm of step, but very pale. Alfred's scream had tried her sorely, 

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