roaring fire after supper, did it occur to him how confidential he had
become. Seldom had Philip met a man who impressed him as did the little
surgeon. He liked him immensely. He felt that he had known him for
years instead of hours, and chatted freely of his adventures and asked a
thousand questions about home. He found that the doctor was even better
acquainted with his home city than himself, and that he knew many people
whom he knew, and lived in a fashionable quarter. He was puzzled even
as they talked and laughed and smoked their cigarettes and pipes. The
doctor said nothing about himself or his personal affairs, and cleverly
changed the conversation whenever it threatened to drift in that
direction.

It was late when Philip rose from his chair, suggesting that they go to
bed. He laughed frankly across into the other's face.

"Boffin--Boffin--Boffin," he mused.

"Strange I've never heard of you down south, Doctor. Now what the deuce
can you be doing up here?"

There was a point-blank challenge in his eyes. The doctor leaned a
little toward him, as if about to speak, but caught himself. For several
moments his keen eyes gazed squarely into Philip's, and when he broke
the silence the same nervous flush that Philip had noticed before rose
into his cheeks. "To go roughing it down in South America. I believe
you're honest--on the square."

Philip stared at him in amazement.

"If I didn't," he went on, rubbing his hands again over the stove, "I'd
follow your suggestion, and go to bed. As it is, I'm going to tell you
why I'm up here, on your word of honor to maintain secrecy. I've got a
selfish end in view, for you may be able to assist me. But nothing must
go beyond yourself. What do you say to the condition?"

"I will not break your confidence--unless you have murdered some one,"
laughed Philip, stooping to light a fresh pipe. "In that event you'd
better keep quiet, as I'd have to haul you back to headquarters."

He did not see the deepening of the flush in the other's face.

"Good," said the doctor. "Sit down, Steele. I take it for granted that
you will help me--if you can. First I suppose I ought to confess that
my name is not Boffin, but McGill--Dudley McGill, professor of neurology
and diseases of the brain--"

Philip almost dropped his pipe. "Great Scott, and it was you who
wrote--" He stopped, staring in amazement.

"Yes, it was I who wrote Freda, if that's what you refer to," finished
the doctor. "