His right was working, wriggling slowly, slowly out from beneath the sheet. Orpheus struck a match and leaned toward the bed. His heart was almost over the lurking point. Slowly advancing the tip for the flame, Pinney the Rat--now the Rattlesnake with death in his stroke--raised his arm to blind his victim's vision against the blow. The movement brought the flimsy-papered cylinder directly before his own eyes. Familiar characters leaped out at him from the paper. “Gawd!” croaked Pinney the Rat. Though it had the sound of an oath, it was perhaps as near a prayer as the gangster had ever uttered. His frame, tense as a spring, slumped back among the covers. Orpheus dropped the match. “What is it?” he cried with quick concern. “You suffer?” “Where didje get that cig?” “The cigarette? From Greece. I always smoke this kind.” “Have ye--didje ever send 'em to a little lady in the S'maritan Hospital fer a--a guy she was good to?” “Yes.” The Greek's eyes widened. He began to shake through all his frame. “My God! You knew her?” “Did I _know_ her?” The Rat turned away and closed his eyes. His right hand moved furtively under the bed clothing, away from his body. Something fell, with a soft clink between the bed and the wall. The Rat shuddered and sighed like a man freed from a great peril, “Go on. Spiel,” he bade Orpheus. “Spiel?” queried the trembling Greek. “Spill your talk. Tell me about her.” Orpheus opened his heart and spoke. To that silent listener (for Pinney the Rat uttered no word) he poured forth his love and longing and his delusion, speaking of the girl as if she still lived. One word from Pinney might have brought the climax, perhaps disastrously, for that mind, desperately clinging to its delusion, might have collapsed under too sudden a shock of reality. The Rat lay quiet, drinking it in and revolving tangled problems. There were strange echoes in the Greek's talk which he failed to understand. As I came in I met, on the stairs, Orpheus going out. His face was alight with a strange radiance. “That Mr. Pinney knows her,” he said. “He knows my Toinette. She was once good to him.” Then, in a confidential and triumphant whisper: “So she lives in another heart beside my own.” It was as if his delusion, his creed, his religion of love that was stronger than death, had been blessed with convincing proof. Wondering greatly, I returned to my patient. He was lost in thought and greeted me only with an absent nod. Not until I started the tea for our luncheon did he speak. “Say, boss, about that big wop.” “Well?” “He's a good guy, ain't he?” “He is.” “But--say. A little bit on the slant here?” He knuckled his head. “Huh?” “Perhaps. What have you been saying to him?” “Nothin'. I been listenin'. A great line of talk about the little lady. But--say, boss. What's his kink?” “Couldn't you tell?”