“My own opinion was that there was no chance: that he might, with care and luck, live for two or three years—perhaps more—but that he might equally well drop dead at any moment. It was enough—that momentary hesitation; the eager look in his eyes faded, and he sat back wearily in his chair. “‘Don’t bother,’ he said slowly; ‘I see how it is.’ “‘No, you don’t, Mr. Digby,’ I answered. ‘You see how I think it is. Which is an altogether different matter. There is always a chance.’ “‘That’s juggling with words,’ he said, with a twisted little smile. ‘The great point is that I’m not in a position to ask this girl to marry me.’ “He glanced at the slip of paper I handed to him, then he rose. “‘I would like you to go and see him,’ I said quietly. ‘You see I feel the gravity of what I’ve had to tell you this morning very much, and in fairness to myself as well as to you, my dear fellow, I’d like you to go to Sir John.’ “For a few seconds he stood there facing me, then he grinned as he had done at the beginning of the interview. “‘All right, Doctor,’ he cried. ‘I’ll go, and Sir John shall drive the nail right in.’ “‘I’m sorry,’ I said—‘infernally sorry. You’ve taken it, if I may say so, like a very brave man.’ “He turned away abruptly. ‘What the deuce is the good of whining?’ he cried. ‘If it’s the same as in my mother’s case, the end will be very abrupt.’ “The next moment he was gone—a man under sentence of death. And the pitiful tragedy of it hit one like a blow. He was so essentially the type of man who should have married some charming girl and have children. He was just a first-class specimen of the sporting Englishman, but——” The Doctor paused and looked at the Soldier. “The type that makes a first-class squadron-leader,” and the Soldier nodded. “It was in the afternoon,” continued the Doctor after a while, “that Sir John Longworth rang me up. Digby had been to him, and the result was as I expected. Two years, or possibly two days, and as for marriage, out of the question entirely. He had merely confirmed my own diagnosis of the case, and there for a time the matter rested. In the stress of work Jack Digby passed from my mind, until Fate decreed that we should meet again in what were to prove most dramatic circumstances. “It was two months later—about the beginning of July—that I decided to take a short holiday. I couldn’t really spare the time, but I knew that I ought to take one. So I ran down for a long week-end to stop with some people I knew fairly well in Dorsetshire. They had just taken a big house a few miles from Weymouth, and I will call them the Maitlands. There were Mr. and Mrs. Maitland, and a son, Tom, up at the ’Varsity, and a daughter, Sybil. When I arrived I found they had a bit of a house-party, perhaps a dozen in all, and after tea the girl, whom I’d met once or twice before, took me round the place.