"Well, you know--your colour; I perhaps--" He fumbled in the folds of his voluminous gown and produced a small metal mirror. Then he seemed to change his mind and put it back again. "I'd better not," he said softly to himself, and then louder to me, "Have you got a wife--or perhaps a mother?" I am no coward, but I confess I was trembling by this time. "Why?" I cried. "Do you think I ought to send for them?" "Send for them?" he echoed. "_Send for them?_ And you in the grip of C.S.M.! It would be sheer madness--murder!" The cold sweat stood out upon my brow but I kept my head. "Have an apple, won't you, Mr. Burnett?" He selected the largest and began to munch it in silence--silence, that is, as far as talking was concerned. "Tell me," I stammered; "wh--what is C.S.M.? And may I have a look at myself?" He cogitated. "Shall I?" he muttered. "Yes, I think he ought to know." Then quite quietly, accompanied by the core of the apple, there fell from his lips the fatal words "Cerebro-spinal meningitis." At the same time he handed me the glass and selected the next best apple. I looked at myself. My hair stood straight on end; my face was whitish-yellow, my eyes blazed with unmistakable fever. A three-days' beard enhanced the horrible effect. "Have you any pain--there?" One of his large soft hands gripped my side and pinched it hard, the other selected the third best apple. "Yes," I groaned, "I _had_ pain there." "Ah!" he shook his head. "And there?" He sat down heavily on my right ankle. He is a ponderous man. "Agony," I moaned. "Ah! And something throbbing like a gong in the brain?" he inquired, tapping me on the head with the metal mirror. I nodded dumbly. He rose, shrugging his shoulders. "All the symptoms, I'm afraid. That's just how it took poor old Simpson. He had this very cot--let me see, back in '16, I suppose. I had it very slightly afterwards--it was touch and go; I was the only one they pulled through--but I only had it _very_ slightly, you understand--not like that. But cheer up, old man. I've been told that a fellow got through it in the next ward--of course he's an idiot now, but he didn't _die_. I don't suppose you'll be wanting the rest of these apples, will you? All right, don't mention it;" and he passed on to the next cot. When the proper doctor came round a few minutes later (Burnett says) he found his own thermometer quite inadequate and had to borrow the one that registers the heat of the ward. When he took it out of my mouth it wasn't far short of boiling-point, and he wrote straight off to _The Lancet_ about it; also they had to get one of those lightning calculator chaps down to count my pulse. Long before I came to, Ellis had been discharged, the ward had filled up with fresh cases (except Burnett, of course), and the armistice had been signed. When I was well enough they handed me a letter which Ellis had left for me.