he knowledge that is
joy and that comes but once in a lifetime, swept over him, warm, and
his heart beat swift. All things seemed beautiful.

Without a word he took up his hat, and walked rapidly toward the
elevator. A smile was in the frank blue eyes, and to all whom he met,
whether stranger or friend, he gave greeting.

The patient, waiting for his return, grew tired and left, and leaving,
slammed the office door behind him.

UNJUDGED

The source of this manuscript lies in tragedy. My possession of it is
purely adventitious. That I have had it long you may know, for it came
to me at an inland prairie town, far removed from water or mountain,
while for ten years or more my name, above the big-lettered dentist
sign, has stood here on my office window in this city by the lake. I
have waited, hoping some one would come as claimant; but my hair is
turning white and I can wait no longer. As now I write of the past,
the time of the manuscript's coming stands clear amid a host of hazy,
half-forgotten things.

It was after regular hours, of the day I write, that a man came
hurriedly into my office, complaining of a fiercely aching tooth.
Against my advice he insisted on an immediate extraction, and the use
of an anaesthetic. I telephoned for a physician, and while awaiting his
coming my patient placed in my keeping an expansible leather-covered
book of a large pocket size.

"Should anything go wrong," he said, "there are instructions inside."

The request is common from those unused to an operation, and I
accepted without other comment than to assure him he need fear no
danger.

Upon arriving, the physician made the customary examination and
proceeded to administer chloroform. The patient was visibly excited,
but neither of us attached any importance to that under the
circumstances. Almost before the effect of the anaesthetic was
noticeable, however, there began a series of violent muscular spasms
and contractions. The inhaler was removed and all restoratives known
to the profession used, but without avail. He died in a few moments,
and without regaining consciousness. The symptoms were suspicious,
entirely foreign to any caused by the anaesthetic, and at the inquest
the cause came to light. In the man's stomach was a large quantity of
strychnine. That he knew something of medicine is certain, for the
action of the alkaloid varies little, and he had the timing to a
nicety.

The man was, I should judge, thi