magines, he constructs, he pursues, he squeezes out
every drop of juice in the orange.... You see, I agree with you on the
whole, but this tragedy disturbed me, and I thought that I had a real
clue. I still believe I have, but cui bono?"

"Cui bono indeed, if it is bungled. If you could do it all yourself,
good. But that is impossible. The world wants your skill to save life,
not to destroy it. Fellowes is dead--does it matter so infinitely,
whether by his own hand or that of another?"

"No, I frankly say I don't think it does matter infinitely. His type is
no addition to the happiness of the world."

They looked at each other meaningly, and Mappin responded once again to
Stafford's winning smile.

It pleased him prodigiously to feel Stafford lay a firm hand on his arm
and say: "Can you, perhaps, dine with me to-night at the Travellers'
Club? It makes life worth while to talk to men like you who do really
big things."

"I shall be delighted to come for your own reasons," answered the great
man, beaming, and adjusting his cuffs carefully.

"Good, good. It is capital to find you free." Again Stafford caught the
surgeon's arm with a friendly little grip.

Suddenly, however, Mr. Mappin became aware that Stafford had turned
desperately white and worn. He had noticed this spent condition when he
first came in, but his eyes now rediscovered it. He regarded Stafford
with concern.

"Mr. Stafford," he said, "I am sure you do not realize how much below
par you are.... You have been under great strain--I know, we all know,
how hard you have worked lately. Through you, England launches her ship
of war without fear of complications; but it has told on you heavily.
Nothing is got without paying for it. You need rest, and you need
change."

"Quite so--rest and change. I am going to have both now," said Stafford
with a smile, which was forced and wan.

"You need a tonic also, and you must allow me to give you one," was the
brusque professional response.

With quick movement he went over to Stafford's writing-table, and threw
open the cover of the blotter.

In a flash Stafford was beside him, and laid a hand upon the blotter,
saying with a smile, of the kind which had so far done its work--

"No, no, my friend, I will not take a tonic. It's only a good sleep I
want; and I'll get that to-night. But I give my word, if I'm not all
right to-morrow, if I don't sleep, I'll send to you and take your tonic
gladly."

"You promi