Particularly was this the case when, after the splints were removed, Bertram found, as the days passed, that his arm was not improving as it should improve. This not only disappointed and annoyed him, but worried him. He remembered sundry disquieting warnings given by the physician at the time of the former break--warnings concerning the probable seriousness of a repetition of the injury. To Billy, of course, Bertram said nothing of all this; but just before Christmas he went to see a noted specialist. An hour later, almost in front of the learned surgeon's door, Bertram met Bob Seaver. “Great Scott, Bertie, what's up?” ejaculated Seaver. “You look as if you'd seen a ghost.” “I have,” answered Bertram, with grim bitterness. “I've seen the ghost of--of every 'Face of a Girl' I ever painted.” “Gorry! So bad as that? No wonder you look as if you'd been disporting in graveyards,” chuckled Seaver, laughing at his own joke “What's the matter--arm on a rampage to day?” He paused for reply, but as Bertram did not answer at once, he resumed, with gay insistence: “Come on! You need cheering up. Suppose we go down to Trentini's and see who's there.” “All right,” agreed Bertram, dully. “Suit yourself.” Bertram was not thinking of Seaver, Trentini's, or whom he might find there. Bertram was thinking of certain words he had heard less than half an hour ago. He was wondering, too, if ever again he could think of anything but those words. “The truth?” the great surgeon had said. “Well, the truth is--I'm sorry to tell you the truth, Mr. Henshaw, but if you will have it--you've painted the last picture you'll ever paint with your right hand, I fear. It's a bad case. This break, coming as it did on top of the serious injury of two or three years ago, was bad enough; but, to make matters worse, the bone was imperfectly set and wrongly treated, which could not be helped, of course, as you were miles away from skilled surgeons at the time of the injury. We'll do the best we can, of course; but--well, you asked for the truth, you remember; so I had to give it to you.” CHAPTER XXVII. THE MOTHER--THE WIFE Bertram made up his mind at once that, for the present, at least, he would tell no one what the surgeon had said to him. He had placed himself under the man's care, and there was nothing to do but to take the prescribed treatment and await results as patiently as he could. Meanwhile there was no need to worry Billy, or William, or anybody else with the matter. Billy was so busy with her holiday plans that she was only vaguely aware of what seemed to be an increase of restlessness on the part of her husband during those days just before Christmas. “Poor dear, is the arm feeling horrid to-day?” she asked one morning, when the gloom on her husband's face was deeper than usual. Bertram frowned and did not answer directly.