Pylorus? No."

"I wish I knew. This fellow seemed to think that Brady made some sort of a
mistake. He wouldn't say much, however. Some sort of a slip, I gathered.
Something to do with the pylorus, I know. It must be a vital spot."

CHAPTER XV

The day after the funeral, George Tresslyn called to see his sister. He
found that it required a new sort of courage on his part to enter the
house, even after his hesitation about pressing the door-bell. He was not
afraid of any living man, and yet he was oppressed by the uncanny fear
that Templeton Thorpe was still alive and waiting somewhere in the dark
old house, ready to impose further demands upon his cupidity. The young
man was none too steady beforehand, and now he was actually shaking. When
Murray opened the door, he was confronted by an extremely pallid visitor
who shot a furtive look over his head and down the hall before inquiring
whether Mrs. Thorpe was at home.

"She is, Mr. George," said Murray. "You telephoned half an hour ago, sir."

"So I did," said George nervously. He was not offended by Murray's obvious
comment upon his unstable condition, for he knew--even though Murray did
not--that no drop of liquor had passed his lips in four days.

"Mrs. Thorpe is expecting you."

"Is she alone, Murray?"

"Yes, sir. Would you mind stepping inside, sir? It's a raw wind that is
blowing. I think I must have taken a bit of a cold yesterday during--ahem!
Thank you, sir. I will tell Mrs. Thorpe that you are here." Murray was
rather testy. He had been imbibing.

George shivered. "I say, Murray, would you mind giving me a drop of
something to warm me up? I--"

The butler regarded him fixedly, even severely. "You have had quite enough
already, sir," he said firmly, but politely.

"Oh, come now! I haven't had a drink in God knows how long. I--but never
mind! If that's the way you feel about it, I withdraw my request. Keep
your darned old brandy. But let me tell you one thing, Murray; I don't
like your impertinence. Just remember that, will you?"

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Murray, unoffended. He was seeing with a
clearer vision. "You are ill. I mistook it for--"

"No, I'm not ill. And I'll forgive you, too, Murray," he added
impulsively. "I daresay you were justified. My fame has preceded me. Tell
Mrs. Thorpe I'm here, will you? Run along; the decanter is quite safe."

A few minutes later he was ushered into Anne's sitting-room upstairs. He
stopped short