ing to save a foolish friend from killing himself."

"I understand."

"Nothing more need be said about it?"

"Nothing more," Dr. Marcellin assured her. "If you will come in I will
give you your instructions. Mademoiselle Duval will soon be here."

"Is she necessary?" inquired Marjory. "I have engaged the next
apartment for myself and maid."

"That is very good, but--Mademoiselle Duval is necessary for the
present. Will you come in?"

She followed the doctor into Monsieur Covington's room. There the odor
of ether hung still heavier.

She heard him muttering a name. She listened to catch it.

"Edhart," he called. "Oh, Edhart!"

CHAPTER VII

THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING SHOT

Under proper conditions, being wounded in the shoulder may have its
pleasant features. They were not so obvious to Monte in the early part
of the evening, because he was pretty much befuddled with ether; but
sometime before dawn he woke up feeling fairly normal and clear-headed
and interested. This was where fifteen years of clean living counted
for something. When Marcellin and his assistant had first stripped
Monte to the waist the day before, they had paused for a moment to
admire what they called his torso. It was not often, in their city
practice, that they ran across a man of thirty with muscles as clearly
outlined as in an anatomical illustration.

Monte was conscious of a burning pain in his shoulder, and he was not
quite certain as to where he was. So he hitched up on one elbow. This
caused a shadow to detach itself from the dark at the other end of the
room--a shadow that rustled and came toward him. It is small wonder
that he was startled.

"Who the deuce are you?" he inquired in plain English.

"Monsieur is not to sit up," the shadow answered in plain French.

Monte repeated his question, this time in French.

"I am the nurse sent here by Dr. Marcellin," she informed him.
"Monsieur is not to talk."

She placed her hand below his neck and helped him to settle down again
upon his pillow. Then she rustled off again beyond the range of the
shaded electric light.

"What happened?" Monte called into the dark.

Then he thought he heard a door open, and further rustling, and a
whispered conversation.

"Who's that?" he demanded.

It sounded like a conspiracy of some sort, so he tried again to make
his elbow. Mademoiselle appeared promptly, and, again placing her hand
beneath his neck, lowered him once mo