My first instinct would have endeavored to shake off the question of the other side of that wall. I would, perhaps, if younger, have rejected the whole impression, declared the girl delirious, and would not now be reciting a story, the conclusion of which never fails to catch my breath. But mine is an empirical science. We deal not so much with weights and measures as with illusive inaccuracies. To be exact is to be a failure. To reject the unknown is to remain a poor doctor, indeed. The issue in this case was defined. Either the congestion of the membranes in the spinal cord was producing a persistent hallucination or else there was, in fact, something going on behind that wall. Either an influence was affecting the child from within or an influence was affecting her from without. I was mad to save her. Even a doctor who habitually views patients and data cards with the same impersonal regard may sometimes feel a call to work for love. And I loved that little child. I meant to exhaust the possibilities. As poor MacMechem had asked the question, I asked it. I touched Virginia's hands with the tips of my fingers. Her eyes turned toward me, and again I was sure that no madness was in them. You, too, would have said that, awakened from the intermittent coma, the little thing, though mute and helpless, was none the less still the mistress of her thoughts. "You have not asked her?" I inquired of Miss Peters. The woman, folding her arms, at the same time shook her head solemnly. "No," she said as if she disapproved. But I bent over Virginia. "I am the new doctor," I said. "Do you understand?" She smiled, and, I tell you, no monster could have resisted that tenderness. "What is there?" I whispered, pointing with my free hand. Her eyes opened as children's eyes will do in the distress of innocence; her feeble hand moved in mine as a little weak animal might move. Her face refilled with pain. "Something is there," she whispered. "What?" She shook her head weakly. The nurse touched my elbow. I thanked her for reminding me of the chances I was taking with the little girl's quiet. I left instructions; then, perhaps not wholly at peace with myself, I crept softly down the stairs. I did not wish an interview with Mrs. Marbury. I did not wish to see that begging look on her face. I would have been glad to have escaped Marbury himself. He was waiting for me. He waited at the bottom of the steps with that smug financial face of his--a mask through which, in that moment, the warmth of suffering and love seemed struggling to escape. He was plucking, from his thin crop, gray hairs that he could ill afford to lose. I anticipated his questions. "It is a matter of conservation of strength," I told him; "a question of mental state, a question of the nervous system. No man can answer now--beforehand." He drew out his watch and looked at it without knowing what he did or why or observing the hour. "By the way," said I, "who lives next door--in there?"