A tiny smile fluttered round the thin quivering lips. “There’s no end to it,” he whispered, “is there? Once you begin. The nasty precautions....” He struck a match, and the flame lit the ruin in his dark, fevered eyes. “You can’t,” he said, “have anything cleaner than love. You can’t. This love, anyway. Clean ... clean as the Virgin Mary. And then ... you’re dogged by dirt. You think fine things, fine sacrifices ... and you’re dirty as all Sodom and Gomorrah. All this nastiness round a thing, all this messing about....” It was as the letter burnt in his hand and fluttered, just like a hurt crow, to the floor, while he watched it with intent seriousness, that I heard a step by the door in the other room. To see Conrad Masters alone, I hurried towards it. There he was, tired, worried-looking, his sharp features sticking like a great bird’s out of that rough brown coat. “Bad,” he muttered. “Can’t do more. She’s conscious, too. And doesn’t give a damn. Not a damn. I told her you were here, and she said ‘Nice’ to that, but didn’t seem to think you were worth living for. Need a miracle now.... ‘Nice!’” “But, good God,” I said, “we’ve got a miracle here! He’s a bit mad, but miracle is his second name....” “And what’s his first?” Masters snapped. “Harpenden....” “First name, Christian name,” said Masters wearily. “Napier, by any chance?” “You’re right,” said Masters. A decidedly undecided man? Why, he radiated resolution: and a lean sort of mirth. “Never know your luck,” he said. “Not in this world....” I just managed to catch him by the coat as he plunged towards the other room, in which one could make out the tail of Napier’s coat. “Masters,” I whispered, “I went and told him it was ptomaine poisoning....” “Good,” said Masters. Those gentle worried eyes with the faintly amused look. “That’s all right,” he smiled. “Young ass.” There sat Napier, a lost man.... “Come along,” Masters jabbed at him. “Come along, man! Waive introduction. Life and death....” Napier jumped up. Masters looked almost fresh and boyish beside him. A captain of men, that was Conrad Masters. “I say,” Napier said.... “Look here,” said Masters, “I’m taking you in to cheer her up. Might make all the difference. Just might....” Napier tried to smile. Oh, he tried. “But, doctor,” he said. “Is she ... going?” “She wants to go, that’s the trouble. Any one would think,” snapped that captain of men, “that I was committing a felony in trying to keep her alive. By the way she looks at me. You’ve got to cheer her up, Mr. eh....” “Captain Harpenden,” I said. “You’ve got to make her care whether she lives or dies. That’s your business, Captain Harpenden. I’ll give you five minutes to do it in....” Napier looked from him to me. He scowled immensely. “I’ll go out to Venice,” I said, but I don’t suppose that Napier, passing me, heard a word. Conrad Masters stayed a second. Gone was the captain of men. He looked terribly worried.... “I say, want to play bridge?”