"I expect it's because he's dead, sir," the child replied, with grave serenity. This unbiased testimony in favour of his fears came to Julian's mind like a storm. "How do you know?" he exclaimed, with a harsh voice. "Lor', sir," the boy said, not without a certain pride, "I knows a corpse when I sees it. My father died come a fortnight ago. See that?" And he indicated, with stumpy finger, the black band upon his left arm. "Well, father looked just like the gentleman." Julian was petrified by this urchin's intimacy with death. It struck him as utterly vicious and terrible. A horror of the rosy-faced little creature, with good-conduct medals gleaming on its breast, came over him. "Hush!" he said. "All right, sir; but you take my word for it, the gentleman's dead." Julian finished the note, thrust it into an envelope, and addressed it to the doctor. "Run and get a cab and take that at once to Harley Street," he said. The boy smiled. "I like cab-riding," he said. "And," Julian caught his arm, "that gentleman is not dead. He's alive, I tell you; only in a faint, and alive." The boy looked into Julian's face with the pitying grin of superior knowledge of the world. "Ah, sir, you didn't see father," he said. Then he turned and bounded eagerly down the stairs, in a hurry for the cab-ride. Loneliness and desolation descended like a cloud over Julian when he had gone, for the frank belief of the boy, who cared nothing, struck like an arrow of truth to his heart, who cared everything. Was Valentine indeed dead? He would not believe it, for such a belief would bring the world in ruins about his feet. Such a belief would people his soul with phantoms of despair and of wickedness. Could he not cry out against God in blasphemy, if God took his friend from him? The tears rushed into his eyes, as he sat waiting there in the night. As before a drowning man, scenes of the last five years flashed before him, painted in vital colours,--scenes of his life with Valentine,--then scenes of all that might have been had he never met Valentine, never known his strange mastering influence. Could that influence have been given only to be withdrawn? Of all the inexplicable things of life the most inexplicable are the abrupt intrusions and disappearances of those lovely manifestations which give healing to tired hearts, to the wounded soldiers of the campaign of the world. Why are they not permitted to stay? Bitterly Julian asked that question. Of all the men whom he knew, only Valentine did anything for him. Must Valentine, of all men, be the one who might not stay with him? The rest he could spare. He could not spare Valentine. He could not. The impotence of his patience tortured him physically, like a disease. He sprang up from his chair. He must do something at once to know the truth. What could he do? He had no knowledge of medicine. He could not tabulate physical indications, and he would not trust to his infernal instinct. For it was that which cried