"Undoubtedly. Such a man may be actively dishonest and escape all sense of guilt because he has in his mind logic-proof compartments in which certain matters are kept immured and safe from conflict with the reason that he employs for other affairs. It was this exact quirk of lopsided righteousness which enabled our grandsires to burn witches while they sang psalms." "You think our host is of the type most susceptible to such a danger?" "Yes, because the intolerant man always stands on the border of insanity." "But, Doctor," Stuart put his question with a keenly edged interest, "for such a condition as you describe, is there a cure, or is it only a matter of analysis?" "Ah," replied Ebbett gravely, "that's a large question. Usually a cure is quite possible, but it always depends upon the uncompromising frankness of the patient's confessions. He must strip his soul naked before we can help him. If we can trace back into subconsciousness and identify the disturbing influences, they resolve themselves into a sore that has been lanced. They are no longer making war from the darkness--and with light they cease to exist." As the neurologist broke off the aged and decrepit dog for which Eben Tollman had discovered no fondness until it had been exiled to the garage, came limping around the corner of the terrace and licked wistfully at Stuart's knee. "That dog," commented the physician, "ought to be put out of his misery. He's a hopeless cripple and he needs a merciful dose of morphine. I'll mention it to Eben." "It would be a gracious act," assented the younger man. "Life has become a burden to the old fellow." Dr. Ebbett rose and tossed his cigar stump outward. "We've been sitting here theorizing for hours after the better-ordered members of the household have gone to their beds," he said. "It's about time to say good night." And the two men climbed the stairs and separated toward the doors of their respective rooms. Dr. Ebbett left just after breakfast the next day, but on the verge of his departure he remembered and mentioned the dog. "I've been meaning to shoot him," confessed Tollman, "but I've shrunk from playing executioner." "Shooting is an awkward method," advised the doctor. "I have here a grain and a half of morphine in quarter-grain tablets. They will cause no suffering. They are readily soluble, won't be tasted, and will do the work." "How much shall I give? I don't want to bungle it." "It's simply a question of dosage. Let him have a half grain, I shouldn't care to give that much to either a dog or a man--unless a drug habitue--without expecting death--but there's the car and it's been a delightful visit." Possibly some instinct warned the superannuated dog of his master's design. At all events he was never poisoned--he merely disappeared, and for the mystery of his fading from sight there was no solution. * * * * *