Reread, the cryptic sentences began to take on meaning. An unknown named Bassett, whoever he might be, was going to Norada bent on “mischief,” and another unknown who signed himself “G” was warning David of that fact. But the mischief was designed, not against David, but against a third unknown, some one who was to be got out of town. David had been trying to get him out of town.--The warning referred to himself. His first impulse was to go to David, and months later he was to wonder what would have happened had he done so. How far could Bassett have gone? What would have been his own decision when he learned the truth? For a little while, then, the shuttle was in Dick's own hand. He went up to David's room, and with his hand on the letter in his pocket, carried on behind his casual talk the debate that was so vital. But David had a headache and a slightly faster pulse, and that portion of the pattern was never woven. The association between anxiety and David's illness had always been apparent in Dick's mind, but now he began to surmise a concrete shock, a person, a telegram, or a telephone call. And after dinner that night he went back to the kitchen. “Minnie,” he inquired, “do you remember the afternoon Doctor David was taken sick?” “I'll never forget it.” “Did he receive a telegram that day?” “Not that I know of. He often answers the bell himself.” “Do you know whether he had a visitor, just before you heard him fall?” “He had a patient, yes. A man.” “Who was it?” “I don't know. He was a stranger to me.” “Do you remember what he looked like?” Minnie reflected. “He was a smallish man, maybe thirty-five or so,” she said. “I think he had gaiters over his shoes, or maybe light tops. He was a nice appearing person.” “How soon after that did you hear Doctor David fall?” “Right away. First the door slammed, and then he dropped.” Poor old David! Dick had not the slightest doubt now that David had received some unfortunate news, and that up there in his bedroom ever since, alone and helpless, he had been struggling with some secret dread he could not share with any one. Not even with Lucy, probably. Nevertheless, Dick made a try with Lucy that evening. “Aunt Lucy,” he said, “do you know of anything that could have caused David's collapse?” “What sort of thing?” she asked guardedly. “A letter, we'll say, or a visitor?” When he saw that she was only puzzled and thinking back, he knew she could not help him. “Never mind,” he said. “I was feeling about for some cause. That's all.”