It was late on the night after the accident when Jack Chicot came home. He found his wife lying in a dull stupor, as the gossips had described her, life sustained by the frequent administration of brandy. The woman was as near death as she could be without being ready for her grave. A stranger was sitting by her bedside when Jack went into the room, a young man with a gravity of face and manner which was older than his years. The nurse was on the other side of the bed, applying a cooling lotion to La Chicot’s burning forehead. The leg had been successfully set that afternoon, by one of the cleverest surgeons in London, and was suspended in a cradle under the light coverlet. Jack went to the bedside and bent over the motionless figure, and looked at the dull, white face. ‘My poor Zaïre, this is bad,’ he murmured, and then he turned to the stranger, who had risen and stood beside him. ‘You are the doctor, I suppose?’ ‘I am the watch-dog, if you like. Mr. Smolendo would not trust my inexperience with so delicate an operation as setting the broken leg. It was a terrible fracture, and required the highest art. He sent for Sir John Pelham, and everything has been done well and successfully. But he allowed me to remain as surgeon in charge. Your wife’s state is perilous in the extreme. I fear the brain is injured. I was in the theatre when the accident happened. I am deeply interested in this case. I have lately passed my examination creditably, and am a qualified practitioner. I shall be glad if you will allow me to attend your wife--under Pelham, of course. It is not a question of remuneration,’ the young man added hurriedly. ‘I am actuated only by my professional interest in Madame Chicot’s recovery.’ ‘I have no objection to my wife’s profiting by your generous care, provided always that Sir John Pelham approves your treatment,’ answered Chicot, in a calmer tone than George Gerard expected from a man who had just come home after a week’s absence to find his wife in peril of death. ‘Do you think she will recover?’ This question was asked deliberately, with intense earnestness. Gerard saw that the eyes which looked at him were watching for the answering look in his own eyes, waiting as for the sentence of doom. That look set the surgeon wondering as to the relations between husband and wife. A minute ago he had wondered at Chicot’s coldness--a tranquillity that seemed almost indifference. Now the man was all intensity. What did the change mean? ‘Am I to tell you the truth?’ asked Gerard. ‘By all means.’ ‘Remember I can give you only my opinion. It is an obscure case. The injury to the brain is not easily to be estimated.’ ‘I will take your opinion for what it is worth. For God’s sake be candid.’ ‘Then in my opinion the chances are against her recovery.’ Jack Chicot drew a long breath, a strange shivering sigh, which the surgeon, clever as he was, knew not how to interpret.