In a few words then, Rex related what he and Scott Bowman had witnessed, adding an account of what Sydney had said to him when he asked to have the doctor sent out of the room. “It’s queer, isn’t it, Roy?” Rex added. “Yes, but I can’t connect it with the present case.” “Neither can I. That makes it queerer still. Perhaps you’d better not say anything about what I told you.” “No, I shan’t,” and the boys sat quiet a while longer, discussing the mystery of this affair in lowered tones. Meanwhile Sydney in his room across the hall, was lying in his bed with his eyes wide open staring at the ceiling. Now and then he passed his hand across his forehead, on which the perspiration kept gathering. “It is Nemesis,” he murmured over and over. “I have felt that it would come, and now at last it has appeared, and through Rex, of all the others!” All through that night he remained thus wakeful. He watched, helplessly, the gradual breaking of the dawn, knowing that he had not slept a moment and feeling that he must have this physical ill to bear in addition to the mental one which already weighed him down to the earth. But he had come to the turning point now. In some way this was a relief, even though the prospect immediately ahead of him was such a fearsome one. He wished that he could go up to the office without seeing any of the family, as he had done that other morning in Marley. But he could not do this now. They would worry and send after him. He must try and get through the ordeal of facing them as best he could. He rose at the usual time, but before he had finished dressing there was a knock at the door and Roy’s voice wanting to know how he was. “All right,” he replied, and then, as his brother asked if he might come in, he opened the door. “All right!” exclaimed Roy, after one look at his face, “Oh, Syd!” “It’s only because I haven’t slept,” Sydney hastened to assure him. “Then what are you getting up for?” Roy went on. “I must go down town. I have that to do which will ease my mind, and _make me all right again, I trust.”_ The last words were added in so low a tone as to be scarcely audible. “Oh, Syd, what is it? What is worrying you? Can’t I help you in any way?” “No, Roy, you cannot now. Perhaps—later—I will need—need your pity.” “Pity! Oh, Syd, you do not know what you say.” “Don’t, Roy. I have a hard task to perform; do not, I beg of you, make it harder.” Roy said no more; he would not after this. He went back to his own room and went over in his mind all that had befallen them since they had been what the world called wealthy. “Not one bit happier, though; no, not as happy,” he added for himself. At the breakfast table Sydney insisted that he felt plenty well enough to go to the office. “Can’t you see, mother,” he said at last, “that it is a matter of the mind and not of the body. Let me have the opportunity of easing that, and—you will see the result.”