It was a long walk; he could easily have put in another half-hour at the office had he chosen to take the elevated; but he was in no humor for business and he preferred to walk. It gave him additional time for thought. He must decide when and how he would tell Wentworth, and it is no easy task to tell a friend that his hold upon life is too slight to make him a possible insurance risk. He would not do it to-night. It would be nothing short of brutal so to spoil a pleasant evening. Wentworth would have the knowledge soon enough, even with this respite, and he was entitled to as much of joyousness and pleasure as could be given him. Murray was noticeably dispirited. He tried to be as jovial as usual, but he found himself looking at his friend much as he would have looked at a condemned man. There was sympathy and pity in his face. He wondered when the hour of fate would arrive. Might it not be that very evening? A moment of temporary excitement might be fatal; anything in the nature of a shock might mean the end. Indeed, the very information he had to give might be the one thing needed to snap the cord of life. If so, he would feel that he had really killed his friend, and yet he had no choice in the matter: he must refuse and he must explain why he refused. If it had been his own personal risk, he would have taken it cheerfully, but even had he so desired, he could not take it for the company in the face of the doctor’s report. “What makes you so solemn?” asked Mrs. Wentworth. “You look as if you had lost your best friend.” “I feel as if I had,” Murray replied thoughtlessly, and then he hastened to explain that some business affairs disturbed and worried him. “But your victory over Stanley ought to make you cheerful,” she insisted. “Think of finally winning after so long a fight!” “When shall I get the policy?” asked Wentworth. “Policies are written at the home office,” answered Murray evasively. “But the insurance becomes effective when the application is accepted and the first premium paid, doesn’t it?” asked Wentworth. “Yes,” answered Murray. “Well, now that I am at last converted to insurance I am an enthusiast,” laughed Wentworth. “We won’t waste any time at all. Get out your little check-book, Helen, and give Murray a check for the first premium. I’ll make it good to you to-morrow.” “I don’t believe I could accept it now,” said Murray hesitatingly. “There are certain forms, you know—” “Oh, well, I’ll send you a check the first thing in the morning,” interrupted Wentworth. “Perhaps it isn’t just the thing to turn a little family dinner into a business conference.” “Better wait till you hear from me,” advised Murray, and his face showed his distress. He wished to avoid anything unpleasant at this time, but he was being driven into a corner. “Is—is anything wrong?” asked Mrs. Wentworth anxiously.