"That tube contained a cultivation of pneumonic plague," he exclaimed huskily, "one of the deadliest microbes known. The blood-serum in which I had grown the germs fell upon his hands. Not suspecting the danger, he actually wiped it off with his handkerchief! I did not return until a quarter of an hour afterwards. The evil was then beyond remedy. He became infected!" "Phew! What will happen now?" "Happen? In a few days at most he will be dead! There are no recoveries from pneumonic plague--that most terrible contagious disease so well-known in Eastern Siberia and Japan. There is no hope for him. None. You hear--none!" "By Gad!" I gasped, horrified. "You can't mean it. Where is Thorold now?" "In isolation at St. George's hospital. I sent him there at once. Oh! Heaven, it is too terrible to think of--and my fault, all my fault for leaving the tube there!" I tried to calm him, but he was quite beside himself. I halted, astounded at the gravity of the situation. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. TOWARDS THE TRUTH. Though I hated to cause pain to Vera, I realised that I must immediately tell her. The thought of breaking the terrible news to her upset me, yet the thing had to be faced. Never shall I forget those awful moments. I had tried to break the news gently, but how can such tragic news be broken "gently"? That conventional word is surely a mockery when used in such a connexion. She was devoted to her parents. What seemed to trouble her now more than anything else, was the fact that we did not know her mother's whereabouts, and so could not inform her of the frightful _contretemps_. "Try not to worry, dearest," I said, placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder, and kissing her upon the lips in an endeavour to soothe her. "We are bound very soon to find out where she is." "Yes," she retorted bitterly, "and by that time--by that time poor father may be dead!" She was silent for a few moments, then she said-- "The only thought that comforts me, dear, a little, is that, if he should die, the living lie will die with him. He is so good, so kind, so self-sacrificing, that I think he would be quite ready to die if he thought his death would relieve us of the fearful tension of these last horrible years. My dear, dear father! Ah, how stormy has his life been! Does he know what you have just told me--I mean, that he cannot live?" "No," I replied. She began to weep bitterly again, and I did my best to calm her, and kissed her again. I told her he did not know the danger, which was the truth. Agnew had only told him the germs would probably make him very ill for awhile. The house-physician at the hospital had not broken the actual truth to him--the truth that, infected with such deadly germs he was doomed to death. Perhaps I ought not to have told Vera the whole ghastly truth. Yet, upon carefully considering the matter, I had decided that frankness would be better.