The moment I entered his room on the following day he said: "I thought you had planned to have another doctor come and look me over, yesterday." He was watching me closely as he spoke: "Did I hear you mention his name?"

Ah, thought I, here is a mystery in spite of Dr. Hamilton's denial. I will try him.

"Yes," I said, "I had decided to ask the best Homeopathic doctor I know, a skilful man, especially successful in diagnosing cases, to overhaul you and see if he agrees with me that you ought to be on your feet this blessed minute, if my diagnosis of your case is entirely right. I don't see why you are still so weak. He may find the spring that I have missed. Why?"

"Did you—I am not acquainted with the doctors here,—I think you said his name is—?"

"I have not mentioned his name to you," I said, "but the one I had in mind is Dr. Hamilton of—— Madison Avenue."

There was no doubt about it, the color rose slowly to his face, and he was struggling for self-control. At length he said: "No, I do not wish to see another doctor. I am perfectly satisfied with you. I am—I say—no, positively do not ask him; that is, do not ask anyone to come unless I know and definitely agree to it. And I certainly shall want to know who he is first."

All this was wholly foreign to the man, to his nature and habit.

"Tell me," I said, "what you have against Dr. Hamilton, for I cannot fail to see that there is something behind all this."

He did not reply for some time; then he said wearily, but with great depth of feeling.

"I suppose I may as well tell you. I cannot forgive him for an injury I did him long ago."

I did not say anything nor did I look at him. Presently he went on hoarsely; "If I had only injured him, perhaps I could get over it but I took a mean advantage of—I did it through a woman who liked him—and whom he—loved and trusted." There was another long silence; then I said; "You were right to tell me, Lathro. You need not fear that I will betray you to him, and he does not know you. He did not recognize you either before or after you fainted. Of course I knew there was something wrong. He will not come again."

He sprang to his feet, and a wave of red surged into his face. "I knew it! I knew I had seen him! I was sure it was not a delusion," he said. "He was here. No, he would not know me. He never saw me. I did not injure him like a man, I struck from behind a woman. A woman who cared for his respect, and I let him blame her. I suppose I could get over it if it were not for that. I came back here partly to let him know, if I could some way, that she was not to blame"—there was another long silence—"and partly to get rid of myself. Russia did not do it,—Turkey,—France—none of them. I thought perhaps he would—I had some sort of a wild idea that he might settle with me some way. I have carried that forged cheque in my brain, until—"

I started visibly. I had had no idea that it was so bad as this. I changed my position to hide or cover the involuntary movement I had made, but he had seen it and the color died out of his face. He forced himself to begin again. "I carried that forged check," he was articulating now with horrible distinctness, "wherever I went. She never knew anything about it. She knew I was—she thought, or feared, that I might be somewhat—what you Americans call crooked; but she did not know the truth, not until the very last. She knew that I had been unreliable in some ways long ago; but she did not dream of the worst. At last,—sometimes I think I was a fool to have done it,—but I told her. I told her the whole truth, and—she left me. She had borne everything till then. I think she came here. Before long I followed. She told me not to, and I said I would not; but of course I did. I could not help it. I knew then, and I know now, that I am putting myself into the clutches of the law; but I do not care—not now— since I cannot find Florence Campbell."

He pronounced the name as if it were a treasure wrung from him by force. "It is the only really criminal thing I ever did. I do not know why I did it. They say that crime—a taste for it, develops slowly, by degrees. Maybe so; but not with me, not with me.

"I had money enough; but—oh, my God! how I hated him. I saw that he was growing to love her without knowing it. I often heard them talking together. They did not know it, and if they had it could not have been more innocent; but I was madly jealous, for the first time in my life. I determined to make him think ill of her, and yet I said just now that forgery was my only crime. That was worse, by far, but I believe it is not a crime in law."

He smiled scornfully. "I have outgrown all that now. The storm has left me the wreck you see; but I thought it all out last night, and determined to tell you. You are to tell—him—for her sake," he said between his set teeth.

"He may see her yet some day. She will never return to me—God bless her! God help us both!"

"No, she will never return to you nor to anyone else," I said, as gently as I could.

He sprang up with the energy of a maniac. "How do you know? What do you know?" he demanded.

"I only know that she is dead, my friend," I said, placing my hand on his arm, "and that Dr. Hamilton does not wish to punish you. I heard it all; the story of the forgery of his name, and that a Florence Campbell was in some way connected with it. I heard it from him long, long ago; but he does not know that you are Tom Campbell. You are safe."

"Does not wish to punish me! I am safe! Great God, no one could punish me. I do that. Safe! Oh, the irony of language!"

There was a long pause. He had gone to the window and was staring out into the darkness.

Presently the sound of convulsive sobbing filled the room; I thought best to remain near the door and make no effort to check his grief with words.

At last the storm spent itself. He came slowly into the middle of the room and stood facing me. At length he said:

"One of the greatest punishments is gone, thank God. Florence Campbell is dead, you say. Do you know what it is, Doctor, to wish that one you loved was dead?"

"Yes, yes." I said; "but it is best for you not to talk any more—nor think, just now—not of that—not of that."

He broke in impatiently—"Don't you know me well enough yet to know that that sort of thing—that sort of professional humbug is useless? Must not talk more of that—nor think of it, indeed! What else do you suppose I ever think of? The good men who are bad and the bad ones who are good—the puppets of our recent conversations? Suppose we boil it down a little. Am I a bad man? That is a question that puzzles me. Am I a good one? At least I can answer that—and yet I never did but one criminal deed in my whole life, and I have done a great many so-called good ones to set over against it."

"Then you can answer neither question with a single word," I said. He took my hand and pressed it with the frenzy of a new hope.

"At least one man's philosophy is not all words," he said. "You act upon your theories. You are the only one I ever knew who did."

"Perhaps I am the only one you ever gave the chance," I replied, still holding his hand.

We stood thus silent for a moment, then he said with an inexpressible accent of satire: "Would you advise me to try it, doctor, with anyone else?" I deliberated some time before I replied. Then I said: "No, I am sorry to say that I fear it would not be safe. There is still so much tiger in the human race. No, do not tell your story again to any one; it can do no good. Most certainly I would advise you not to try it ever again."

As I left the room he said: "True, true. It can do no good, none whatever."

The next day he left. I never saw him again. Two years later I received a kind letter from him in which he greatly over-estimated all I had done for him. The letter came from St. Petersburg and was signed "T. Lathro Campbell, Col. Imperial Guard."

I fancied, in spite of his letter, that he would rather sever all connection with this country, and feel that he had no ties nor past; so I never answered his letter.

Sometimes I wonder if he misunderstood my silence, and accepted it as a token of unfriendliness—and yet—well, I have never been able to decide just what would be least painful to him; so I let it drift into years of silence, and perhaps, after all, these very good intentions of mine may be only cobble-stones added to the paving of the streets of a certain dread, but very populous city which is, in these days of agnosticism quite a matter of jest in polite society.

Who shall say? Which would he prefer, friendly communication or silence and forgetfulness?

THE END