In some amazement, the broker apologized and retired, and Murray began to wonder what would happen to him if Mrs. Tucker ever did get enough of the stock to make her influence felt. Of course, there was little chance of that, but even a small stock-holder could be annoying when so disposed. He began to dream about the Tucker case, and an incidental mention of it in the office would make the atmosphere unpleasant for the day. Every clerk and solicitor understood that it was a dangerous topic. Once the name “Tucker” was mentioned in the ordinary course of business, and Murray had things at a fever heat before it could be explained to him that it was another Tucker. Then came a letter from the West, with a Tucker return card on the envelop. A council of war was held before it was delivered to Murray, and even then a time was chosen when he was absent to lay it on his desk. It was very brief—just an announcement that “the patient” had rallied splendidly after the fatigue of the journey and exhibited “really wonderful vitality for a sick man.” No one cared to go near Murray all the rest of that day. Soon after the first of the following month another missive arrived—a mere formal affidavit, headed “Certificate of Life,” and solemnly averring that “Ralph Tucker’s heart has not ceased to murmur along in the land of the living.” This was followed a month later by a certificate from a physician to the effect that “a restful ranch life is especially conducive to longevity, and Mr. Tucker’s health continues to show all the improvement that can be expected in a man who had nothing the matter with him in the first place.” These facetious reports continued to arrive at monthly intervals for a period of nearly a year. Usually they were brief, but occasionally the doctor, who seemed to enter into the spirit of the affair, would go into such details as weight, endurance, appetite, lifting power, respiration and—heart murmur. “The heart,” he wrote at one time, “seems to be too well satisfied to murmur now, and the patient was able to sit up and eat a large steak to-day, after which a little gentle exercise—about twenty miles on horseback—seemed to do him some good.” Murray promptly turned this over to the company doctor, and the latter sighed. Almost the only satisfaction in life that Murray had during this time arose from his ability to make the doctor miserable. “He was not a good risk when I examined him,” the doctor insisted, “but he may be a good one now. We can’t be certain of results in such a case, and the law of probabilities frequently works out wrong. He could not have done a better thing, under the circumstances, than to go in for a simple, outdoor life. The basis of trouble was there, in my judgment, but it may have been overcome.” “The basis of trouble is still there,” declared Murray; “not only the basis of trouble, but the whole blame structure, and it’s resting on us. I can feel the weight.” “So can I,” replied the doctor disconsolately.