"How about the skull fracture?" asked the doctor in a low voice, as the nurse was passing out. "He is dead," said the nurse. "When?" asked the doctor. "Just now. I just left him." "There was no chance," said the doctor. The nurse was about to pass on when the doctor detained her. "That tall man," he said, "who was with him: where has he gone?" The nurse looked at the doctor in surprise. "There was no one with him but me," she said. "Oh, yes," said the doctor. "I saw a man bending over the bed--a very tall man with a remarkable face. I wondered who he could be." The nurse turned, and with the doctor looked over toward the bed where the body of James Neal lay. "That is strange," said the nurse. "I saw him there," said the doctor, "just as you were leaving the patient; now he is gone." "Queer! I saw no one," said the nurse, and moved away to attend to other duties. The doctor walked over to the bed where the body of the little clerk lay. "It _is_ strange," he mused. "I surely saw him.--The most beautiful face I ever saw." Then he looked down at what had been James Neal. "He was very fortunate," said the doctor in a low tone, "to die with a face like that looking into his." There was a smile on the death-white lips of the little clerk. MASTER OF FALLEN YEARS[17] By VINCENT O'SULLIVAN (From _The Smart Set_) Several years ago, I was intimately acquainted with a young man named Augustus Barber. He was employed in a paper-box manufacturer's business in the city of London. I never heard what his father was. His mother was a widow and lived, I think, at Godalming; but of this I am not sure. It is odd enough that I should have forgotten where she lived, for my friend was always talking about her. Sometimes he seemed immensely fond of her; at other times almost to hate her; but whichever it was, he never left her long out of his conversation. I believe the reason I forget is that he talked so much about her that I failed at last to pay attention to what he said. He was a stocky young man, with light-coloured hair and a pale, rather blotchy complexion. There was nothing at all extraordinary about him on either the material or spiritual side. He had rather a weakness for gaudy ties and socks and jewelry. His manners were a little boisterous; his conversation, altogether personal. He had received some training at a commercial school. He read little else than the newspapers. The only book I ever knew him to read was a novel of Stevenson's, which he said was "too hot for blisters." Where, then, in this very commonplace young man, were hidden the elements of the extraordinary actions and happenings I am about to relate? Various theories offer; it is hard to decide. Doctors, psychologists whom I have consulted, have given different opinions; but upon one point they have all agreed--that I am not able to supply enough information about his ancestry. And, in fact, I know hardly anything about that.