his eyes widened with wonder and pity

Her eyes fastened dilating, upon his. The scene faltered perceptibly

Whitaker felt land beneath his feet

"I do not love you. You are mad to think it"

THE DESTROYING ANGEL

I

DOOM

"Then I'm to understand there's no hope for me?"

"I'm afraid not...." Greyerson said reluctantly, sympathy in his eyes.

"None whatever." The verdict was thus brusquely emphasized by Hartt, one
of the two consulting specialists.

Having spoken, he glanced at his watch, then at the face of his
colleague, Bushnell, who contented himself with a tolerant waggle of his
head, apparently meant to imply that the subject of their deliberations
really must be reasonable: anybody who wilfully insists on footing the
measures of life with a defective constitution for a partner has no
logical excuse for being reluctant to pay the Piper.

Whitaker looked quickly from one to the other of his three judges,
acutely sensitive to the dread significance to be detected in the
expression of each. He found only one kind and pitiful: no more than
might have been expected of Greyerson, who was his friend. Of the
others, Hartt had assumed a stony glare to mask the nervousness so
plainly betrayed by his staccato accents; it hurt him to inflict pain,
and he was horribly afraid lest the patient break down and "make a
scene." Bushnell, on the other hand, was imperturbable by nature: a man
to whom all men were simply "cases"; he sat stroking his long chin and
hoping that Whitaker would have the decency soon to go and leave them
free to talk shop--his pet dissipation.

Failing to extract the least glimmering of hope from the attitude of any
one of them, Whitaker drew a long breath, unconsciously bracing himself
in his chair.

"It's funny," he said with his nervous smile--"hard to realize, I mean.
You see, I _feel_ so fit--"

"Between attacks," Hartt interjected quickly.

"Yes," Whitaker had to admit, dashed.

"Attacks," said Bushnell, heavily, "recurrent at intervals constantly
more brief, each a trifle more severe than its predecessor."

He shut his thin lips tight, as one who has consciously pronounced the
last word.

Greyerson sighed.

"But I don't understand," argued the prisoner at the bar, plaintively
bewildered. "Why, I rowed with the Crew three years hand-running--not a
sign of anything wrong with me!"

"If you had then had proper professional advice, you would have spared
yourself s