e," said K. huskily.

He felt that Johnny would be a good mediator--that whatever he, K., had
done of omission or commission, Johnny's voice before the Tribunal would
count.

The lame young violin-player came into the ward. She had cherished a
secret and romantic affection for Max Wilson, and now he was in the
hospital and ill. So she wore the sacrificial air of a young nun and
played "The Holy City."

Johnny was close on the edge of his long sleep by that time, and very
comfortable.

"Tell her nix on the sob stuff," he complained. "Ask her to play 'I'm
twenty-one and she's eighteen.'"

She was rather outraged, but on K.'s quick explanation she changed to
the staccato air.

"Ask her if she'll come a little nearer; I can't hear her."

So she moved to the foot of the bed, and to the gay little tune Johnny
began his long sleep. But first he asked K. a question: "Are you sure
I'm going to walk, Mr. Le Moyne?"

"I give you my solemn word," said K. huskily, "that you are going to be
better than you have ever been in your life."

It was K. who, seeing he would no longer notice, ordered the screens to
be set around the bed, K. who drew the coverings smooth and folded the
boy's hands over his breast.

The violin-player stood by uncertainly.

"How very young he is! Was it an accident?"

"It was the result of a man's damnable folly," said K. grimly. "Somebody
always pays."

And so Johnny Rosenfeld paid.

The immediate result of his death was that K., who had gained some of
his faith in himself on seeing Wilson on the way to recovery, was beset
by his old doubts. What right had he to arrogate to himself again powers
of life and death? Over and over he told himself that there had been no
carelessness here, that the boy would have died ultimately, that he
had taken the only chance, that the boy himself had known the risk and
begged for it.

The old doubts came back.

And now came a question that demanded immediate answer. Wilson would
be out of commission for several months, probably. He was gaining, but
slowly. And he wanted K. to take over his work.

"Why not?" he demanded, half irritably. "The secret is out. Everybody
knows who you are. You're not thinking about going back to that
ridiculous gas office, are you?"

"I had some thought of going to Cuba."

"I'm damned if I understand you. You've done a marvelous thing; I lie
here and listen to the staff singing your praises until I'm sick of your
name! And