She knew that he was moved by honest intentions. That he confidently believed he could preserve this man's life she would not for an instant doubt. But why had he agreed to undertake the feat that other men had declared was useless, the work that other men had said to be absolutely unnecessary? A faint ray of comfort rested on the possibility that these great surgeons, appreciating, the wide-spread interest that naturally would attend the fate of so great a man as James Marraville, were loth to face certain failure, but even that comfort was destroyed by an intelligence that argued for these surgeons instead of against them. They had said that the case was hopeless. They were honest men. They had the courage to say: "This man must die. It is G.o.d's work, not ours," and had turned away. They were big men; they would not operate just for the sake of operating. And when they admitted that it was useless they were convincing the world that they were honourable men. Therefore,-she almost ground her pretty teeth at the thought of it,-old Marraville and his family had turned to Braden Thorpe as one without honour or conscience!

She had never been entirely free from the notion that her husband's death was the result of premeditated action on the part of his grandson, but in that instance there was more than professional zeal in the heart of the surgeon: there was love and pity and gentleness in the heart of Braden Thorpe when he obeyed the command of the dying man. If he were to come to her now, or at any time, with the confession that he had deliberately ended the suffering of the man he loved, she would have put her hand in his and looked him in the eye while she spoke her words of commendation.

Templeton Thorpe had the right to appeal to him in his hour of hopelessness, but this other man-this mighty Marraville!-what right had he to demand the sacrifice? She had witnessed the suffering of Templeton Thorpe, she had prayed for death to relieve him; he had called upon her to be merciful, and she had denied him. She wondered if James Marraville had turned to those nearest and dearest to him with the cry for mercy. She wondered if the little pellets had been left at his bedside. She knew the extent of his agony, and yet she had no pity for him. He was not asking for mercy at the hands of a man who loved him and who could not deny him.

He was demanding something for which he was willing to pay, not with love and grat.i.tude, but with money. Would he look up into Braden's eyes and say, "G.o.d bless you," when the end was at hand?

Moved by a sudden irresistible impulse she flung reserve aside and decided to make an appeal to Braden. She would go to him and plead with him to spare himself instead of this rich old man. She would go down on her knees to him, she would humble and humiliate herself, she would cry out her unwanted love to him....

At nine o'clock she was at his office. He was gone for the day, the little placard on the door informed her. Gone for the day! In her desperation she called Simmy Dodge on the telephone. He would tell her what to do. But Simmy's man told her that his master had just gone away in the motor with Dr. Thorpe,-for a long ride into the country. Scarcely knowing what she did she hurried on to Lutie's apartment, far uptown.

"What on earth is the matter, Anne?" cried the gay little wife as her sister-in-law stalked into the tiny drawing-room and threw herself dejectedly upon a couch. Lutie was properly alarmed and sympathetic.

It was what Anne needed. She unburdened herself.

"But," said Lutie cheerfully, "supposing he should save the old codger's life, what then? Why do you look at the black side of the thing? While there's life, there's hope. You don't imagine for an instant that Dr.

Thorpe is going into this big job with an idea of losing his patient, do you?"

Anne's eyes brightened. A wave of relief surged into her heart.

"Oh, Lutie, Lutie, do you really believe that Braden thinks he can save him?"

Lutie's eyes opened very wide. "What in heaven's name are you saying? You don't suppose he's thinking of anything else, do you?" A queer, sinking sensation a.s.sailed her suddenly. She remembered. She knew what was in Anne's mind. "Oh, I see! You-" she checked the words in time. An instant later her ready tongue saved the situation. "You don't seem to understand what a golden opportunity this is for Braden. Here is a case that every newspaper in the country is talking about. It's the chance of a lifetime.

He'll do his best, let me tell you that. If Mr. Marraville dies, it won't be Braden's fault. You see, he's just beginning to build up a practice.

He's had a few unimportant cases and he's-well, he's just beginning to realise that pluck and perseverance will do 'most anything for a fellow.

Now, here comes James Marraville, willing to take a chance with him-because it's the only chance left, I'll admit,-and you can bet your last dollar, Anne, that Braden isn't going to make a philanthropic job of it."

"But if he fails, Lutie,-if he fails don't you see what the papers will say? They will crush him to-"

"Why should they? Bigger men than he have failed, haven't they?"

"But it will ruin Braden forever. It will be the end of all his hopes, all his ambitions. _This_ will convict him as no other-"

"Now, don't get excited, dear," cautioned the other gently. "You're working yourself into an awful state. I think I understand, Anne. You poor old girl!"

"I want you to know, Lutie. I want some one to know what he is to me, in spite of everything."

Then Lutie sat down beside her and, after deliberately pulling the pins from her visitor's hat, tossed it aimlessly in the direction of a near-by chair,-failing to hit it by several feet,-and drew the smooth, troubled head down upon her shoulder.

"Stay and have luncheon with George and me," she said, after a half hour of confidences. "It will do you good. I'll not breathe a word of what you've said to me,-not even to old George. He's getting so nervous nowadays that he comes home to lunch and telephones three or four times a day. It's an awful strain on him. He doesn't eat a thing, poor dear. I'm really quite worried about him. Take a little snooze here on the sofa, Anne. You must be worn out. I'll cover you up-"

The door-bell rang.

Lutie started and her jaw fell. "Good gracious! That's-that's Dr. Thorpe now. He is the only one who comes up without being announced from downstairs. Oh, dear! What shall I-Don't you think you'd better see him, Anne?"

Anne had arisen. A warm flush had come into her pale cheeks. She was breathing quickly and her eyes were bright.

"I will see him, Lutie. Would you mind leaving us alone together for a while? I must make sure of one thing. Then I'll be satisfied."

Lutie regarded her keenly for a moment. "Just remember that you can't afford to make a fool of yourself," she said curtly, and went to the door.

A most extraordinary thought entered Anne's mind, a distinct thought among many that were confused: Lutie ought to have a parlour-maid, and she would make it her business to see that she had one at once. Poor, plucky little thing! And then the door was opened and Thorpe walked into the room.

"Well, how are we this morning?" he inquired cheerily, clasping Lutie's hand. "Fine, I see. I happened to be pa.s.sing with Simmy and thought I'd run in and see-" His gaze fell upon the tall, motionless figure on the opposite side of the room, and the words died on his lips.

"It's Anne," said Lutie fatuously.

For a moment there was not a sound or a movement in the little room. The man was staring over Lutie's head at the slim, elegant figure in the modish spring gown,-it was something smart and trig, he knew, and it was not black. Then he advanced with his hand extended.

"I am glad to see you back, Anne. I heard you had returned." Their hands met in a brief clasp. His face was grave, and a queer pallor had taken the place of the warm glow of an instant before.

"Three days ago," she said, and that was all. Her throat was tight and dry. He had not taken his eyes from hers. She felt them burning into her own, and somehow it hurt,-she knew not why.

"Well, it's good to see you," he mumbled, finding no other words. He pulled himself together with an effort. He had not expected to see her here. He had dreamed of her during the night just past. "Simmy is waiting down below in the car. I just dropped in for a moment. Can't keep him waiting, Lutie, so I'll-"

"Won't you spare me a few moments, Braden?" said Anne steadily. "There is something that I must say to you. To-morrow will not do. It must be now."

He looked concerned. "Has anything serious-"

"Nothing-yet," she broke in, antic.i.p.ating his question.

"Sit down, Braden," said Lutie cheerfully. "I'll make myself scarce. I see you are down for a big job to-day. Good boy! I told you they'd come your way if you waited long enough. It is a big job, isn't it?"

"Ra-_ther_," said he, smiling. "I daresay it will make or break me."

"I should think you'd be frightfully nervous."

"Well, I'm not, strange to say. On the contrary, I'm as fit as a fiddle."

"When do you-perform this operation?" Anne asked, as Lutie left the room.

"This afternoon. He has a superst.i.tion about it. Doesn't want it done until after banking hours. Queerest idea I've ever known." He spoke in quick, jerky sentences.

She held her breath for an instant, and then cried out imploringly: "I don't want you to do it, Braden,-I don't want you to do it. If not for my sake, then for your own you must refuse to go on with it."

He looked straight into her troubled, frightened eyes. "I suppose you are like the rest of them: you think I'm going to kill him, eh?" His voice was low and bitter.

She winced, half closing her eyes as if a blow had been aimed at them.

"Oh, don't say that! How horrible it sounds when you-_speak it_."

He could see that she was trembling, and suddenly experienced an odd feeling of contentment. He had seen it in her eyes once more: the love that had never faltered although dragged in the dirt, discredited and betrayed. She still loved him, and he was glad to know it. He could gloat over it.

"I am not afraid to speak it, as you say," he said curtly. Then he pitied her. "I'm sorry, Anne. I shouldn't have said it. I think I understand what you mean. It's good of you to care. But I am going ahead with it, just the same." His jaw was set in the old, resolute way.

"Do you know what they will say if you-fail?" Her voice was husky.

"Yes, I know. I also know why they finally came to me. They haven't any hope. They believe that I may-well, at least I will not say _that_, Anne.

Down in their hearts they all hope,-but it isn't the kind of hope that usually precedes an operation. No one has dared to suggest to me that I put him out of his misery, but that's what they're expecting,-all of them.

But they are going to be disappointed. I do not owe anything to James Marraville. He is nothing to me. I do not love him as I loved my grandfather."

He spoke slowly, with grave deliberation; there was not the slightest doubt that he intended her to accept this veiled explanation of his present att.i.tude as a confession that he had taken his grandfather's life.