I am no coward, but I confess I was trembling by this time.

"Why?" I cried. "Do you think I ought to send for them?"

"Send for them?" he echoed. "_Send for them?_ And you in the grip of
C.S.M.! It would be sheer madness--murder!"

The cold sweat stood out upon my brow but I kept my head.

"Have an apple, won't you, Mr. Burnett?"

He selected the largest and began to munch it in silence--silence,
that is, as far as talking was concerned.

"Tell me," I stammered; "wh--what is C.S.M.? And may I have a look at
myself?"

He cogitated. "Shall I?" he muttered. "Yes, I think he ought to know."
Then quite quietly, accompanied by the core of the apple, there fell
from his lips the fatal words "Cerebro-spinal meningitis."

At the same time he handed me the glass and selected the next best
apple.

I looked at myself. My hair stood straight on end; my face was
whitish-yellow, my eyes blazed with unmistakable fever. A three-days'
beard enhanced the horrible effect.

"Have you any pain--there?" One of his large soft hands gripped my