"One would think you were
on the watch for fever patients just for the sake of showing off your
discovery! It _would_ be poetic, though, if you could make your final
proof and demonstration by curing your own sister!" Clarendon started violently and guiltily. Had she suspected his wish? Had he muttered anything aloud? He looked at her closely, and saw that
she had no inkling of the truth. She smiled up sweetly into his face
and patted his hand as he stood by the side of the lounge. Then he
took a small oblong leather case from his vest pocket, and taking out
a little gold syringe, he began fingering it thoughtfully, pushing the
piston speculatively in and out of the empty cylinder. "I wonder," he began with suave sententiousness, "whether you would
really be willing to help science in--something like that way--if the
need arose? Whether you would have the devotion to offer yourself to
the cause of medicine as a sort of Jephthah's daughter if you knew it
meant the absolute perfection and completion of my work?" Georgina, catching the odd and unmistakable glitter in her brother's
eyes, knew at last that her worst fears were true. There was nothing to
do now but keep him quiet at all hazards and to pray that Margarita had
found James Dalton at his club. "You look tired, Al dear," she said gently. "Why not take a little
morphia and get some of the sleep you need so badly?" He replied with a kind of crafty deliberation. "Yes, you're right. I'm worn out, and so are you. Each of us needs a
good sleep. Morphine is just the thing--wait till I go and fill the
syringe and we'll both take a proper dose." Still fingering the empty syringe, he walked softly out of the room. Georgina looked about her with the aimlessness of desperation, ears
alert for any sign of possible help. She thought she heard Margarita
again in the basement kitchen, and rose to ring the bell, in an effort
to learn of the fate of her message. The old servant answered her
summons at once, and declared she had given the message at the club
hours ago. Governor Dalton had been out, but the clerk had promised to
deliver the note at the very moment of his arrival. Margarita waddled below stairs again, but still Clarendon did not
reappear. What was he doing? What was he planning? She had heard the
outer door slam, so knew he must be at the clinic. Had he forgotten his
original intention with the vacillating mind of madness? The suspense
grew almost unbearable, and Georgina had to keep her teeth clenched
tightly to avoid screaming. *       *       *       *       *

It was the gate bell, which rang simultaneously in house and clinic,
that broke the tension at last. She heard the catlike tread of Surama
on the walk as he left the clinic to answer it; and then, with an
almost hysterical sigh of relief, she caught the firm, familiar accents
of Dalton in conversation with the sinister attendant. Rising, she
almost tottered to meet him as he loomed up in the library doorway;
and for a moment no word was spoken while he kissed her hand in his
courtly, old-school fashion. Then Georgina burst forth into a torrent
of hurried explanation, telling all that had happened, all she had
glimpsed and overheard, and all she feared and suspected. Dalton listened gravely and comprehendingly, his first bewilderment
gradually giving place to astonishment, sympathy, and resolution. The
message, held by a careless clerk, had been slightly delayed, and had
found him appropriately enough in the midst of a warm lounging-room
discussion about Clarendon. A fellow-member, Dr. MacNeil, had brought
in a medical journal with an article well calculated to disturb the
devoted scientist, and Dalton had just asked to keep the paper for
future reference when the message was handed him at last. Abandoning
his half-formed plan to take Dr. MacNeil into his confidence regarding
Alfred, he called at once for his hat and stick, and lost not a moment
in getting a cab for the Clarendon home. Surama, he thought, appeared alarmed at recognizing him; though he had
chuckled as usual when striding off again toward the clinic. Dalton
always recalled Surama's stride and chuckle on this ominous night,
for he was never to see the unearthly creature again. As the chuckler
entered the clinic vestibule his deep, guttural gurgles seemed to blend
with some low mutterings of thunder which troubled the far horizon. When Dalton had heard all Georgina had to say, and learned that Alfred
was expected back at any moment with an hypodermic dose of morphine,
he decided he had better talk with the doctor alone. Advising Georgina
to retire to her room and await developments, he walked about the
gloomy library, scanning the shelves and listening for Clarendon's
nervous footstep on the clinic path outside. The vast room's corners
were dismal despite the chandelier, and the closer Dalton looked at
his friend's choice of books the less he liked them. It was not the
balanced collection of a normal physician, biologist, or man of general
culture. There were too many volumes on doubtful borderland themes;
dark speculations and forbidden rituals of the Middle Ages, and strange
exotic mysteries in alien alphabets both known and unknown. The great notebook of observations on the table was unwholesome, too. The handwriting had a neurotic cast, and the spirit of the entries was
far from reassuring. Long passages were inscribed in crabbed Greek
characters, and as Dalton marshaled his linguistic memory for their
translation he gave a sudden start, and wished his college struggles
with Xenophon and Homer had been more conscientious. There was
something wrong--something hideously wrong--here, and the governor sank
limply into the chair by the table as he pored more and more closely
over the doctor's barbarous Greek. Then a sound came, startlingly near,
and he jumped nervously at a hand laid sharply on his shoulder. "What, may I ask, is the cause of this intrusion? You might have stated
your business to Surama." Clarendon was standing icily by the chair, the little gold syringe in
one hand. He seemed very calm and rational, and Dalton fancied for a
moment that Georgina must have exaggerated his condition. How, too,
could a rusty scholar be absolutely sure about these Greek entries? The
governor decided to be very cautious in his interview, and thanked the
lucky chance which had placed a specious pretext in his coat pocket. He
was very cool and assured as he rose to reply. "I didn't think you'd care to have things dragged before a subordinate,
but I thought you ought to see this article at once." He drew forth the magazine given him by Dr. MacNeil and handed it to
Clarendon. "On page 542--you see the heading, 'Black Fever Conquered by New
Serum.' It's by Dr. Miller of Philadelphia--and he thinks he's got
ahead of you with your cure. They were discussing it at the club,
and MacNeil thought the exposition very convincing.