“Your wife has an acute dilatation of the heart,” he pronounced. The significance of his unguarded tone shocked Lee immeasurably. * * * * * “But I don't understand that,” Lee protested; “she has never had any serious trouble with her heart before.” He was halted by Daniel's brief peculiar scrutiny. The doctor replied that this was not organic. “It may be the result of unaccustomed and excessive heat; an accumulation of the excessive,” he added concisely. “Excesses.” The single word followed after a hesitation in which Fancett was plainly at a loss. His frowning gaze was still bent upon Lee. “I know so little of Mrs. Randon's history,” he finally said. Daniel naturally had inferred, or perhaps the doctor deduced, that Savina and he were married. They would be, in a very short while, Lee told himself stubbornly. “You have ice on the batey? Yes, at once, please. And a nurse can come from my office on the Havana train this evening.” Daniel nodded once, in acknowledgment. He moved closer to Lee: “This is serious. You can't, of course, think of going on. I will see that she is as comfortable here as she would be with me; everything shall be done.” Lee answered that he was certain of that. A feeling of helplessness fastened on him, together with the incongruous speculation about the propriety of a cable to William Grove. The absurd idea occurred to him that Savina had two husbands; each with the right, if he desired, to be at a side of her bed, each holding one of her limp hands. He dismissed the elaborated thought in a rage at the triviality of his mind. Fancett and Daniel had gone temporarily: Lee had heard the former making arrangements to stay over night at the sugar estate. Savina's fast superficial breathing now dominated the room. He was again seated beside her, leaden-hearted and blank. It was so useless--this illness and suffering, now! The doctor had seemed to insinuate that it might be traced to him, Lee Randon. What the devil did he mean by that? It was the fault of Daniel, the immobile, as much as anyone. In an airy room, under comfortable conditions, probably it wouldn't have happened. Savina's suit, her shoes, the bags, hadn't been disturbed. There was a faint tightening of her grasp, and he bent close, but he distinguished only random words. “--not sorry. Willing ... with you. Don't be unhappy.” It required an enormous effort, the sound was at once all but imperceptible and burdened with an agony of labor. As he watched her he saw what, he thought, was an illusion--the blueness of the room, of the walls, seemed to settle on her countenance. It increased, her face was in tone with the color that had so disturbed her, a vitreous blue too intense for realization. He was startled: like a sponge, sopping up the atmosphere, she darkened. It was so brutal, so hideous, that he spoke involuntarily: “No one can live blue like that.”