o sleep for forty-five hours;
his eyes were sunken in his head; the skin over his temples looked drawn
and white. His clothes were wrinkled; the soft hat he habitually wore
was white with the dust of the road.

As he opened the hall door, Christine stirred in the room beyond. She
came out fully dressed.

"K., are you sick?"

"Rather tired. Why in the world aren't you in bed?"

"Palmer has just come home in a terrible rage. He says he's been robbed
of a thousand dollars."

"Where?"

Christine shrugged her shoulders.

"He doesn't know, or says he doesn't. I'm glad of it. He seems
thoroughly frightened. It may be a lesson."

In the dim hall light he realized that her face was strained and set.
She looked on the verge of hysteria.

"Poor little woman," he said. "I'm sorry, Christine."

The tender words broke down the last barrier of her self-control.

"Oh, K.! Take me away. Take me away! I can't stand it any longer."

She held her arms out to him, and because he was very tired and lonely,
and because more than anything else in the world just then he needed a
woman's arms, he drew her to him and held her close, his cheek to her
hair.

"Poor girl!" he said. "Poor Christine! Surely there must be some
happiness for us somewhere."

But the next moment he let her go and stepped back.

"I'm sorry." Characteristically he took the blame. "I shouldn't have
done that--You know how it is with me."

"Will it always be Sidney?"

"I'm afraid it will always be Sidney."

CHAPTER XXVIII

Johnny Rosenfeld was dead. All of K.'s skill had not sufficed to save
him. The operation had been a marvel, but the boy's long-sapped strength
failed at the last.

K., set of face, stayed with him to the end. The boy did not know he was
going. He roused from the coma and smiled up at Le Moyne.

"I've got a hunch that I can move my right foot," he said. "Look and
see."

K. lifted the light covering.

"You're right, old man. It's moving."

"Brake foot, clutch foot," said Johnny, and closed his eyes again.

K. had forbidden the white screens, that outward symbol of death. Time
enough for them later. So the ward had no suspicion, nor had the boy.

The ward passed in review. It was Sunday, and from the chapel far below
came the faint singing of a hymn. When Johnny spoke again he did not
open his eyes.

"You're some operator, Mr. Le Moyne. I'll put in a word for you whenever
I get a chance."

"Yes, put in a word for m