ought to be glad to let a woman like that slip out.
If she lives she'll only infect more people with her rottenness. She's
better dead. Instead of that they'll suck out somebody else's vitality
to save her. The better the life the more pleased they'll be to risk it.
This sacrificing the strong to the weak--a snivelling sentimentality."

The man he spoke to glanced at him curiously--it was not usual for Robert
Stonehouse to speak to anyone--and said something about the medical
profession and the sanctity of life. Robert laughed. He argued it over
with himself. It was true. For that matter Howard and Gertie and Connie
would all be better dead. There was no use or purpose in their living.
Only sentimentalists like Francey wanted to patch them up and keep them
on their feet.

People who cluttered up life ought to be cleared out of it.

He felt light-headed, yet extraordinarily sure of himself again. He
answered Rogers' questions with the old lucidity. And presently he found
himself in the corridor, still arguing his theme over. He would prove to
Francey that she must let Howard and Gertie go to the devil and they
would never quarrel again.

He came to the head of the stairs where they met after the morning's work.

The steps were very broad and white and shallow, and gave the impression
of great distance. Mr. Ricardo, at the bottom of them, was a black
speck--a bird that had blundered into the building by mistake and beaten
itself breathless against the walls. As he saw Robert he began to drag
himself up, limping. He seemed to shrivel then to a mere face, stricken
and yellow, that gaped and mouthed.

Robert did not move. He stood leaning against the balustrade. It was as
though an iron fist had smashed through the protecting wall about him,
letting in a rush of bitter wind.

"Robert--Robert!"

He nodded.

"I'm coming----"

For he had known instantly.

6

The tragic journey through the streets was over. They stood beside her.
Robert knew too much to struggle, but Ricardo's voice went on, saying the
same things over and over again, pleading.

"Do something--do something. Wake her, Robert, dear boy, for God's sake.
What is the use of all your studying if you can't even wake her?"

"It's no use," he said.

"She was sitting there--I was to have read her the last chapter--she was
so quiet--asleep she seemed---for an hour--I sat--not moving--then I was
afraid!"

Robert nodded.

She had