uch strains. But it's too late now; the mischief can't be
undone."

Evidently Bushnell considered the last word his prerogative. Whitaker
turned from him impatiently.

"What about an operation?" he demanded of Greyerson.

The latter looked away, making only a slight negative motion with his
head.

"The knife?" observed Hartt. "That would merely hasten matters."

"Yes," Bushnell affirmed....

There was a brief uneasy silence in the gloomy consulting room. Then
Whitaker rose.

"Well, how long will you give me?" he asked in a strained voice.

"Six months," said Greyerson, miserably avoiding his eye.

"Three," Hartt corrected jerkily.

"Perhaps...." The proprietor of the last word stroked his chin with a
contemplative air.

"Thanks," said Whitaker, without irony. He stood for an instant with his
head bowed in thought. "What a damned outrage," he observed
thoughtfully. And suddenly he turned and flung out of the room.

Greyerson jumped to follow him, but paused as he heard the crash of the
street door. He turned back with a twitching, apologetic smile.

"Poor devil!" he said, sitting down at his desk and fishing a box of
cigars from one of the drawers.

"Takes it hard," commented Hartt.

"You would, too, at his age; he's barely twenty-five."

"Must feel more or less like a fellow whose wife has run off with his
best friend."

"No comparison," said Bushnell bluntly. "Go out, get yourself arrested
for a brutal murder you didn't commit, get tried and sentenced to death
within six months, the precise date being left to the discretion of the
executioner--_then_ you'll know how he feels."

"If you ask me"--Greyerson handed round the box--"he feels pretty shaky
and abused, and he wants a drink badly--the same as me."

He unlocked a cellaret.

"Married?" Hartt inquired.

"No. That's the only mitigating circumstance," said Greyerson,
distributing glasses. "He's quite alone in the world, as far as I
know--no near relatives, at least."

"Well off?"

"Tolerably. Comes of good people. Believe his family had a lot of money
at one time. Don't know how much of it there was left for Whitaker. He's
junior partner in a young law firm down-town--senior a friend or
classmate of his, I understand: Drummond & Whitaker. Moves with the
right sort of people. Young Stark--Peter Stark--is his closest
friend.... Well.... Say when."

II

THE LAST STRAW

Greyerson was right in his surmise as to Hugh Whitaker's e