Peter felt the eyes of the doctor studying him in the dark. "I heard about your case. It was Leerie brought you through, too, wasn't it?" Quick as a flash Peter turned. For the instant he forgot they were speeding at a forbidden rate down slippery macadam in a tempest, with his hand as the only controlling force. He almost dropped his wheel. "Why '_too_'? Is she pulling you through something?" He could hear a heavy intake of breath beside him. Unconsciously he knew that his companion was no longer sitting limp with relaxed muscles. He seemed to feel every nerve and fiber in the body of the surgeon growing tense, which made his careless, inconsequential tone sound the more strange when he finally spoke: "That's an odd question to put to a doctor. I was referring to Leerie's cases. She's pulled through hundreds of patients, you know; she's famous for it." "Yes, I know," answered Peter. His voice sounded just as careless, but the hands that gripped the wheel were as taut as steel. They swept on for another half-hour, the silence broken by an occasional yawn from the surgeon. At last Peter slowed down and looked at his watch. "Eleven-thirty. If we turn now we'll make the San about one. How's that for bedtime?" "Gad! I'm ready now," and the doctor yawned again. Peter timed it to a nicety. It was five minutes past one as he dropped Doctor Brainard at the Surgical, where he roomed. He was just driving off when Miss Jacobs hurried out of the entrance. "Oh, Mr. Brooks, wait a minute, please. Doctor Dempsy isn't resting very well, and Miss Maxwell left word that if he called for you, you could sit with him. We can't get him to sleep, and he does want you." "All right. I'll leave the car and come back." As Peter took his chair again by his friend's bedside his face was set to as strong a purpose as Sheila O'Leary's had shown that day in the sanitarium grounds. "Want me to talk, old man?" he asked, quietly. "Maybe I can yarn you into forty winks. Shall I try?" "Wish you would. It's funny how a man can go through this with a thousand or so patients and it seems like an every-day affair, but when it's himself--well, there's the rub." And the doctor smiled a bit sheepishly at his own ungovernable nerves. Peter gripped his hand understandingly. "I know. It's the difference between fiction and autobiography as far as it touches your own sense of reality. Well, to-night shall we try fiction? Ever since they pulled me through here, I've had my mind on a yarn with a sanitarium or hospital for a background and a doctor for a hero. All this atmosphere gets into your blood. It keeps you guessing until you have to spin a yarn and use up the material." "Anything for copy, hey?" the doctor chuckled.