ersisted in
his first intention, and gave Ovid the letter. It was addressed to a
doctor at Montreal.

"That man won't introduce you to society," Benjulia announced, "and
won't worry your brains with medical talk. Keep off one subject on your
side. A mad bull is nothing to my friend if you speak of Vivisection."

Ovid looked at him steadily, when he uttered the last word. Benjulia
looked back, just as steadily at Ovid.

At the moment of that reciprocal scrutiny, did the two men suspect each
other? Ovid, on his side, determined not to leave the house without
putting his suspicions to the test.

"I thank you for the letter," he began; "and I will not forget the
warning."

The doctor's capacity for the exercise of the social virtues had its
limits. His reserves of hospitality were by this time near their end.

"Is there anything more I can do for you?" he interposed.

"You can answer a simple question," Ovid replied. "My cousin Carmina--"

Benjulia interrupted him again: "Don't you think we said enough about
your cousin in the Gardens?" he suggested.

Ovid acknowledged the hint with a neatness of retort almost worthy
of his mother. "You have your own merciful disposition to blame, if
I return to the subject," he replied. "My cousin cannot forget your
kindness to the monkey."

"The sooner she forgets my kindness the better. The monkey is dead."

"I am glad to hear it."

"Why?"

"I thought the creature was living in pain."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I heard a moaning--"

"Where?"

"In the building behind your house."

"You heard the wind in the trees."

"Nothing of the sort. Are your chemical experiments ever made on
animals?"

The doctor parried that direct attack, without giving ground by so much
as a hair's breadth.

"What did I say when I gave you your letter of introduction?" he asked.
"I said, A mad bull is nothing to my friend, if you speak to him
of Vivisection. Now I have something more to tell you. I am like my
friend." He waited a little. "Will that do?" he asked.

"Yes," said Ovid; "that will do."

They were as near to an open quarrel as two men could be: Ovid took up
his hat to go. Even at that critical moment, Benjulia's strange jealousy
of his young colleague--as a possible rival in some field of discovery
which he claimed as his own--showed itself once more. There was no
change in his tone; he still spoke like a judicious friend.

"A last word of advice," he said. "You