the inner office and flung the door
shut behind him.

A half-hour later he came out. He had himself sternly in hand again. His
shoulders were squared, his head up; in his face was written a peculiar
grim defiance which those who did not comprehend might easily mistake
for the stoicism imputed to men of his calling under defeat. Miss
Mathewson knew better, understood that it was taking all his courage
to face his work again, and realized as nobody else could that the day
before him would be one of the hardest he had yet had to live. But
she was hopeful that little by little he would come back to the same
recognition of that which she felt was really true, that, in spite of
the results, he had been justified in the risk he had taken, and that he
could not be blamed that conditions which only a superhuman penetration
could have foreseen would arise to thwart him.

"Cynthia has your breakfast ready for you Doctor," Miss Mathewson said
quietly, as he came out. She did not look up from the desk, where
she was working on accounts. But as he passed her, on his way to the
dining-room, he laid his hand for an instant on her shoulder, and when
she looked up she met his grateful eyes. She had given him the greatest
proof of confidence in her power, and it had been the one ray of light
in his black hour.

"Won't you take just a taste o' the chops, Doctor?" urged his
housekeeper, anxiously. She knew nothing of the situation, but she had
not served him for eight years not to have learned something of his
moods, and it was clear to her that he had had little sleep for many
nights.

But he put aside the plate. "I know they're fine, Cynthia," said he in
his gentlest way. "But the coffee's all I want, this morning. Another
cup, please."

Cynthia hesitated, a motherly sort of solicitude in her homely face.
"Doctor, do you know you've had four, a'ready? And it's awful strong."

"Have I! Well--perhaps that's enough. Thank you, Cynthia."

His housekeeper looked after him, as he left the room. "He's terrible
blue, to be so polite as that," she reflected. "When he's happy he's in
such a hurry he don't have time to thank a body. Of the two. I guess I'd
rather have him hustlin' rude!"

In the middle of the day Burns met Van Horn.

"Sorry the case went wrong, Doctor," said his colleague. There was a
peculiar sparkle in his eye as he offered this customary, perfunctory
condolence.

"Thank you," replied Burns, shortly.

"I didn't wish