He managed to clutch Brainard’s wrist with his wavering right hand; his left lay quite powerless by his side. His eyes closed again, but the lips moved silently, as if he were trying to frame sounds. “He’s going this time, sure!” The young man slipped his wrist from the feeble grasp, inserted a pillow under the sick man’s head, and sat back to wait. II It was very still in that back room. No step sounded in the hall, and the noise from the street came muffled. In the stillness, the sick man’s desperate efforts to breathe filled the little room with painful sounds. Brainard felt the stifling approach of death, and opened the window wide to get what air would come in from the small court outside. He studied the figure on the lounge more closely. The thick, red under lip curled over the roots of the gray beard. A short, thick nose gave the face a look of strong will, even of obstinacy. There was a foreign expression to the features that might indicate German descent. On the third finger of his right hand, the sick man wore an old, plain gold ring, which had sunk deep into the flesh. From the inside pocket of his short coat bulged a thick wallet, over which his right hand rested, as if to guard precious possessions. “He thought I was going to rob him!” Brainard observed. “Expect he’s been up against it already—and that’s what’s the trouble.” It was quite dark. The young man lighted a gas-jet, then went again to the door. As he stood there, listening, he felt the old man’s eyes on him, and turned to look at him. The eyes, now wide open, held him, asking what the lips refused to utter. Brainard went back to his patient and leaned over to catch the flutter from the moving lips. At last, as if with great exertion, the murmur came: “Wh-wh-what are you go-going to do—to do—with me?” In spite of the faintness of the whisper, it was the voice of one accustomed to being answered. “I’ve sent an officer for an ambulance,” Brainard replied. “It ought to be here before now, I should think. They’ll take you to some hospital and fix you up,” he added encouragingly. The lips twitched into a semblance of a smile, then mumbled: “No—not—th-this time.” “What’s the matter—accident?” Brainard asked. The sick man did not attempt to reply, as if he considered the question of trifling importance. Instead, his eyes studied the young man’s face intently. Evidently his brain was clearing from the shock, whatever had caused it, and he was revolving some purpose. Soon the lips began to move once more, and Brainard bent close to catch the faint sounds. “Wh-wh-what’s your bus-bus-i-ness?” “Oh, I’ve had lots of businesses,” the young man replied carelessly. “Been on a newspaper, in the ad business, real estate, and so on.” He added after a moment, with a little ironical laugh, “Just now I’m in the literary business—a dramatist.”