knew that
never again in all his life would he be able to surpass or even equal the
effort of that unforgettable day. But he had recognised the futility of
skill even as it was being exerted to its utmost accomplishments. The
inevitable was bared to his intelligence. He had done his best for
Templeton Thorpe; no man could have done more than that. With the eyes of
other men upon him, eyes that saw all that he saw, he took it upon himself
to spare his grandfather the few days that might have been added to his
hell by an act less kind,--though no doubt more eminently professional.

And as he performed that final act of mercy, his mind and heart were on
the handshake, and the word of farewell that his benefactor had murmured
in his ear. Templeton Thorpe was at rest; he had thanked his grandson in
advance.

So it was that Braden slept the night through without a tremor. But with
his waking came the sense of responsibility to others. Not to the world at
large, not to the wife of the dead man, but to the three sincere and
honourable members of his profession, who, no doubt, found themselves in a
most trying position. They were, in a way, his judges, and as such they
were compelled to accept their own testimony as evidence for or against
him. With him it was a matter of principle, with them a question of
ethics. As men they were in all probability applauding his act, but as
doctors they were bound by the first and paramount teachings of their
profession to convict him of an unspeakable wrong. It was his duty to
grant these men the right to speak of what they had seen.

He went first to see Dr. Bates, his oldest friend and counsellor, and the
one man who could afterwards speak freely with the widow of the man who
had been his lifelong patient. Going down in the elevator from his room at
the hotel, Braden happened to glance at himself in the narrow mirror. He
was startled into a second sharp, investigating look. Strange that he had
not observed while shaving how thin his face had become. His cheeks seemed
to have flattened out leanly over night; his heavy eyes looked out from
shadowy recesses that he had failed to take account of before; there were
deeper lines at the corners of his mouth, as if newly strengthened by some
artful sculptor while he slept. He was older by years for that unguarded
sleep. Time had taken him unawares; it had slyly seized the opportunity to
remould his features while youth was weak from exhaustion. I