“‘I would like you to take off your vest, please, Mr. Digby,’ I said, and for a moment he stared at me in silence. I was watching him quietly, and it was then I knew that my first surmise was correct. In his eyes there was a look of dreadful fear. “He stripped his vest off, and I continued my examination. And after I’d finished I walked over to my desk. “‘You can put on your clothes again,’ I said gravely, to swing round as I felt his hand like a vice on my shoulder. “‘What is it?’ he muttered. ‘Tell me.’ “‘It was not altogether a matter of form with you, was it, Mr. Digby?’ I answered. ‘Put on your clothes; I want to ask you a few questions.’ “‘Hang it, man!’ he cried. ‘I can’t wait. What have you found?’ “‘I would like to have another opinion before telling you.’ I was fencing for time, but he was insistent. “‘You can have another opinion—you can have fifty other opinions,’ he cried, still gripping me by the shoulder—‘but I want to know what you think _now_. Can I marry?’ “‘You cannot,’ I said gravely, and his hand fell to his side. Then he slowly walked across the room and stood with his back to me, staring out of the window. Once his shoulders shook a little, but except for that he stood quite motionless. And after a while he picked up his clothes and started to dress. “I said nothing until he had finished; with a man of his type talking is a mistake. It was not until he again sat down in the chair opposite me that I broke the silence. “‘You asked me a specific question, Mr. Digby,’ I said quietly, ‘and I answered as a man of your type would like to be answered. But I now want to modify my reply slightly. And I will put it this way. If I had a daughter, I would not allow a man whose heart was in the condition that yours is to marry her. It would not be fair to her; it would certainly not be fair to any possible children.’ “He nodded gravely, though he didn’t speak. “‘You feared something of this sort when you came to me?’ I asked. “‘My mother died of it,’ he answered quietly. ‘And once or twice lately, after exercise, I’ve had an agonising twinge of pain.’ And then, under his breath, he added: ‘Thank God, she doesn’t know!’ “‘But I would like another opinion,’ I continued. ‘There are men, as you know, who are entirely heart specialists, and I will give you the address of one.’ “‘Confirmation of the death sentence,’ he laughed grimly. ‘No saddling-up for me—eh, Doctor?’ “‘Not as you are at present, Mr. Digby.’ I was writing the address of the biggest heart man on a piece of paper, though I felt it was useless. It didn’t require an expert to diagnose this trouble. “‘Is there any chance of getting better?’ he cried eagerly, and I stopped writing and looked at him. There was hope—a dawning hope in his eyes—and for a moment I hesitated.