imism.
The disease is treacherous."

"But Miss Peters, the nurse--she sees it, too! There can be no doubt.
Our little Virginia is saved! You have done it!"

I shook my head.

"Not I."

"Not you? Who, then?"

"Marbury," said I, "I am just beginning to learn that there are other
contagions than those of the body. Can we be sure, my good sir, that
fear is not a disease? Do we know that love is not an infection? Can the
criminal's gloves, saturated with his personality, be safe for the hands
of an honest man? Don't we weaken by rubbing elbows with the weak? Are
there not contagious germs of thought?"

He raised his eyebrows. Finance he knew well. Otherwise he was a stupid
man.

"I do not believe I follow you," he said nervously. "I was speaking of
Virginia. She is so much better!"

I bowed to him politely, and, instead of entering the open door,
descended the steps.

"You're not coming in?" he exclaimed.

"Not yet," said I. "To tell you the truth, I am looking in that grass
plot next door for something dropped there. I see that no one has
disturbed the grass. It has not even been cut. Hello! What's this?"

I had reached down, picked up a metal cylinder and showed it to him.

"It looks like a rifle cartridge--one of those murderous steel-nosed
bullet affairs," said he.

"Something even more dangerous!" said I, thrusting it into my pocket.
"Much more dangerous! Possibly you will believe that I am
ungracious--rather odd as it were--not to mention its name."

He shook his head. The mask of the polite student of percents had
returned; he became formally polite.

"Not at all," he answered, adjusting his black tie. "I had rather hoped
you would stay to see my daughter."

"Another crisis prevents," I said, bowing at the door of my car. But the
banker had turned his back.

"Where now, sir?" asked my chauffeur.

"The old Museum of Natural History."

"All cobblestones in those streets, sir," he said as we leaped forward
again.

This was true. We fairly jounced our way to the old brownstone
structure, which sat with such pathetic dignity on the square of
discouraged grass, frowning at the surrounding tenements. The sign
advertising the waxworks and "Collection of Criminology" still hung at
the door of the lower floor.

"Tell me," said I to the freckled girl who sold admissions, "is the Man
with the Rolling Eye still here?"

She put down her embroidery and removed a long end of red silk thread
which she h