The doctor they always summoned at night was Dr. Matson, a fierce wizard who would never have been invoked if there had been a more gracious physician available. Dr. Matson horrified ladies by asking them blunt questions about the insides they were not supposed to have, and by telling them things in horrible Anglo Saxon simples instead of decent Latinity. He cursed outrageously, too. But he never let rain or sleet or flood or ice or any other impoliteness of circumstances keep him from a patient. He was not often entirely sober and now and then he was ugly drunk. But he never fell off his horse; his hands never hesitated, his knives rarely slipped, even though the patients leaped and yelped. Though he battled death with oaths and herbs and loud defiances, he fought. He fought like a swimmer trying to bring ashore some swooning soul about to drown. He was just putting up his horse after a long ride in the opposite direction when RoBards reined in. Dr. Matson did not wait to be invited, but slapped the saddle on the dripping back of his puffing nag, climbed aboard and was on the way before he asked, “Well, what’s the matter with who this time?” Doctors and lawyers have a right to the truth in a crisis and RoBards was glad of the dark when he confessed the shame of self-murder that had stained the old house. It was evident to Dr. Matson that he could be of no use as a physician, and another might have turned back, but he knew there would still be need of him. RoBards finally managed to say: “Is there any way to—must we—have you got to let everybody know that the poor old gentleman—that he—did it himself?” Matson did not answer for half a mile. Then he laughed aloud: “I get what you’re driving at. I guess I can fix it.” RoBards explained: “You see, the blow of his death is enough for his poor wife and my poor wife, and the—the disgrace would be too much for them to bear.” This did not please the doctor so well: “Disgrace, did you say? Well, I suppose it would be, in the eyes of the damned fools that folks are. But I say the old man did the brave thing—the right thing. He died like a Roman. But it’s the fashion to call such courage cowardice or crime, so I’ll fix it up. Down in the city now, the undertakers have blank certificates already signed by the doctors so the undertakers can fill in the favorite form of death—anything their customers ask for. We ought to do as well up here. All the modern conveniences!” His sardonic cackle made RoBards shudder, but when the harsh brute stood by the bedside and by laying on of hands verified the permanent retirement of the old merchant he spoke with a strange gentleness: